^4 


THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 


BY      ARNOLD      BENNETT 


NOVELS 

THE  OLD  WIVES'  TALE 

HELEN  WITH  THE  HIGH  HANB 

THE  MATADOR  OF  THE  FIVE  TOWNS 

T~y£  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

BURIED  ALIVE 

A  GREAT  MAN 

LEONORA 

WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

A  MAN  FROM  THE  NORTH 

ANNA  OF  THE  FIVE  TOWNS 

THE  GLIMPSE 

POCKET  PHILOSOPHIES 

How  TO  LIVE  ON  24  HOURS  A  DAY 
THE  HUMAN  MACHINE 
LITERARY  TASTE 
MENTAL  EFFICIENCY 

PLAYS 

CUPID    AND    COMMONSENSE 

WHAT   THE   PUBLIC  WANTS 
POLITE   FARCES 
MILESTONES 
THE  HONEYMOON 

MISCELLANEOUS 

THE  TRUTH  ABOUT  AN  AUTHOR 
THE  FEAST  OF  ST.  FRIEND 


GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK 


THE      POCKET      BOOKS 

THE    BOOK    OF 
G  ARLOTTA 

BEING  A  REVISED  EDITION  (WITH  NEW  PREFACE)  OF 

SACRED  AND  PROFANE  LOVE 

By    ARNOLD    BENNETT 

Author  of  "The  Old  Wives'  Tale,"  "Buried  Alive,"  etc. 

GEORGE    H.   DORAN    COMPANY 
NEW  YORK 

Copyright,  1911, 
By  George  H.  Doran  Company 


TO  MY  FRIEND 

EDEN  PHILLPOTTS 

THE    NOVELIST 
FOR    WHOM    MAN    AND    NATURE    ARE    INSEPARABLE 

WITH    PROFOUND    RESPECT 

FOR   THE   CLASSICAL    DIGNITY    OF    HIS    AIM 

AND    EQUAL    ADMIRATION    FOR   THE 

AUSTERE    SPLENDOUR   OF    HIS 

PERFORMANCE 


2001664 


PREFACE  TO  THIS  EDITION 

Although  nobody  suspected  the  fact,  this  novel 
was  planned  as  the  third  part  of  a  trilogy  of  novels 
dealing  chiefly  with  women.  An  author  may,  if 
he  chooses  to  keep  quiet  about  it,  safely  write  as 
many  trilogies  as  he  likes  without  being  accused  of 
the  crime  of  pretentiousness,  for  the  public  will 
never  of  its  own  accord  attempt  to  establish  a  rela- 
tion between  three  different  books  produced  at 
different  periods  and  offered  for  sale  in  different 
bindings.  The  first  part  of  the  trilogy  was  Anna 
of  the  Five  Towns,  which  presented  the  uncul- 
tivated woman  of  the  lower  middle-class.  The 
second  part  was  Leonora,  which  presented  the 
cultivated  woman  of  the  middle-class.  And  this 
third  part  (originally  entitled  Sacred  and  Profane 
Love)  presents  the  woman  of  genius  —  who  be- 
longs neither  to  the  middle  class  nor  to  any 
other  class,  but  simply  to  her  genius  and  to  the 
passions  of  her  own  heart.  The  first  book  was 
tragic,  but  not  necessarily  so.  The  second  avoided 
tragedy,  by  the  beneficence  of  chance.  It  was 
inevitable  that  the  third  should  be  intrinsically 
tragic.  Some  critics  have  deemed  the  final  chapter 


Vlll 


PREFACE 


wantonly  cruel.  It  would  be  juster  to  call  it  wan- 
tonly kind;  for  I  am  absolutely  sure  that  if  Car- 
lotta  Peel  had  lived  much  longer  she  would  have 
discovered  that  her  work  of  redemption  was  far  less 
complete  than  she  imagined  it  to  be,  and  every  hour 
of  her  existence  would  have  been  poisoned  by  the 
most  dreadful  disillusion.  Men  such  as  Emilio  Diaz 
are  apparently  created  to  be  the  scourge  of  women. 

It  was  while  I  was  considering  the  general  form  of 
this  novel  that  Sybil  Sanderson,  the  once  celebrated 
singer,  died  in  Paris,  in  circumstances  of  acute  trag- 
edy. The  terribly  brief  account  of  her  funeral  given 
by  the  Journal  des  Debats,  which  I  read  one  even- 
ing in  a  cafe  on  the  boulevard,  made  a  very  powerful 
appeal  to  my  imagination;  and  I  instantly  decided 
to  shape  the  story  to  fit  it.  The  last  page  of  the  book 
is,  save  for  changes  of  name,  a  literal  translation  of 
the  account  of  the  obsequies  of  Sybil  Sanderson. 

When  I  read  my  novel  again,  a  few  days  ago,  I 
was  sincerely  astonished  by  its  audacity.  For  a 
man  to  try  to  expose  the  psychological  secrets  of  a 
woman,  as  for  a  woman  to  try  to  expose  the  psy- 
chological secrets  of  a  man,  is  in  itself  regarded  as 
audacious.  Sometimes  I  think  that  the  most  suc- 
cessful portraits  of  women  by  men,  and  of  men  by 
women,  are  those  in  which  prudence  and  modesty 
have  forbidden  any  attempt  to  achieve  complete- 
ness. At  other  times  I  am  inclined  to  think  that 


PREFACE  ix 

the  differences  between  masculine  and  feminine 
psychology  are  superstitiously  exaggerated.  I  note 
that  I  have  made  Carlotta  say:  "There  are  only 
two  fundamental  differences  in  the  world  —  the 
difference  between  sex  and  sex,  and  the  difference 
between  youth  and  age."'  It  may  be  so;  and  when 
I  happen  to  be  discouraged  in  my  work  I  am  always 
ready  to  agree  positively  with  Carlotta  that  it  is  so. 
But  I  remember  that  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montague, 
one  of  the  keenest  observers  and  wittiest  writers  that 
ever  espoused  a  man,  said  that  though  she  had  lived 
a  very  long  time  and  seen  a  very  great  deal,  she  had 
only  met  two  sorts  of  people  and  that  they  were 
very  much  alike  —  namely,  men  and  women. 
And  in  support  of  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montague's 
contention  I  may  adduce  the  following  personal 
experience.  On  sundry  occasions  women  have  been 
good  enough  to  say  to  me  apropos  of  passages  in  my 
novels :  "How  did  you  know  that?  None  but  a  wo- 
man could  have  known  that"  And  invariably  they 
had  hit  on  passages  which  I  had  written  as  the  result 
of  asking  myself:  "Now  what  should  /  have  done 
in  such  circumstances?  How  should  I  have  felt?" 
But  the  audacity  of  this  novel  goes  beyond  the 
mere  audacity  (if  audacity  it  is)  of  attempting  in 
fiction  an  intimate  and  fairly  complete  portrait  of 
a  member  of  the  opposite  sex.  The  novel  purports 
to  be  written  in  the  first  person  by  the  heroine 


x  PREFACE 

herself,  and  without  reserve.  I  wish  here  to  offer 
some  excuse  for  that  audacity.  The  truth  is  that 
I  found  myself  without  a  reasonable  alternative. 
By  hypothesis,  my  heroine  was  a  genius.  Now  it 
is  grotesquely  futile  for  a  novelist  to  say  to  his 
readers:  "This  lady  was  a  genius."  Readers  are  an 
incredulous  set.  They  always  want  proof.  And 
as  a  reader  I  do  not  blame  them.  How  can  the 
novelist  prove  that  a  character  possesses  genius? 
He  must  prove  it  by  the  character's  acts,  or  by  the 
character's  speech,  or  by  the  character's  writings. 
No  novelist  ever  has  proved  or  ever  will  prove  that 
a  character  had  genius  in  painting,  in  music,  in 
sculpture,  or  in  architecture,  for  the  reason  that  the 
significance  of  these  arts  cannot  be  dramatically 
rendered  in  words.  Conceivably  it  would  be  pos- 
sible to  prove  in  words  that  a  character  had  genius 
in  statesmanship  or  in  science,  though  I  doubt  if  it 
has  ever  been  done.  Moreover,  these  two  careers 
would  not  be  open  to  a  heroine.  What  then  is 
left?  Only  literature  is  left.  My  heroine  was 
bound  to  be  a  writer.  Mr.'  George  Bernard  Shaw 
once  wrote  a  separate  treatise,  in  the  name  of  a  char- 
acter in  one  of  his  plays,  to  prove  that  the  character 
was  a  genius.  Mr.  Shaw  succeeded.  But  he 
succeeded  by  a  clumsy  device,  a  device  unpermissible 
to  anybody  not  named  George  Bernard  Shaw. 
Moreover  the  success  of  the  subsidiary  demon- 


PREFACE  xi 

stration  was  of  no  assistance  whatever  to  the  success 
of  the  play.  Imitating  Mr.  Shaw,  I  might  have 
attached  as  an  appendix  to  this  narrative  of  the  life 
and  death  of  Carlotta  Peel,  novelist  of  genius,  a 
novel  supposed  to  be  written  by  Carlotta  Peel. 
To  add  a  novel  to  a  novel  would  at  any  rate  have 
been  less  clumsy  than  to  add  a  political  treatise  to 
a  play.  But  of  course  it  occurred  to  me,  as  it  would 
have  occurred  to  any  writer:  "Why  not  make  her 
write  her  own  story  in  the  first  person:  and 
thus  kill  two  birds  with  one  stone?"  Indeed 
this  was  the  only  solution  of  the  technical  problem. 
Hence  the  audacity:  which,  after  my  explanation, 
I  rely  on  the  reader  to  excuse,  whatever  his  opinion 
of  the  extent  to  which  the  audacity  has  failed. 

In  conclusion,  I  must  permit  myself  to  point  out 
that  one  of  the  minor  difficulties  which  I  had  to 
attack  was  the  invention  of  a  literary  style  for  my 
heroine.  The  style  of  the  following  pages  is  not 
my  style;  it  is  the  style  of  Carlotta  Peel.  Nor  are 
the  views  on  art  and  conduct  expressed  by  Carlotta 
Peel  necessarily  my  views.  Nor  am  I  minded  to 
defend  everything  that  Carlotta  Peel  did.  But 
when  I  am  asked  as  I  have  been  asked  (with  a  lift 
of  the  eyebrows):  "Surely  you  don't  think  her  a 
nice  woman?"  I  emphatically  reply:  "Yes,  I  do." 

DECEMBER,  1910.  A.  B. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Preface .        vii 

PART  I. 

IN    THE    NIGHT 

CHAPTER 

I.  The  House  Enchanted         ....          3 

II.     The  Concert 18 

III.  The  Garden  of  Love 32 

IV.  The  Price          .          .          .          .  .56 
V.  The  Fear  or  the  Hope         ....        75 

PART  II. 

THE  THREE  HUMAN  HEARTS 

I.  Mrs.  Sardis       .  ...        95 

II.  The  Avowal      .  ...      115 

III.  The  Situation  Changed        .  .  .  .139 

IV.  The  Hazard  of  Destinj       .           .           .           .158 
V.  Nature  Triumphant 175 

VI.      Mary's  Part 187 


CONTENTS. 

PART  III. 

THE  VICTORY 

I.      The  Meeting    .                      ....  201 

II.      Through  the  Night    .                      ...  220 

III.  By  the  Bed  of  the  Sleeper.  .  .  .229 

IV.  The  Offer 248 

V.      In  the  Forest    .                      ....  252 

VI.      The  Swift  Disaster    .           .  276 


How  I  have  wept,  the  long  night  through,  over 
the  poor  women  of  the  past,  so  beautiful,  so  tender, 
so  sweet,  whose  arms  have  opened  for  the  kiss,  and 
who  are  dead  !  The  kiss  —  it  is  immortal !  It 
passes  from  lip  to  lip,  from  century  to  century,  from 
age  to  age.  Men  gather  it,  give  it  back,  and 
die.' — GUY  DE  MAUPASSANT. 


THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

PART  I 
IN  THE  NIGHT 


THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

CHAPTER  I 

THE  HOUSE  ENCHANTED 

FOR    years    I    had    been    preoccupied    with 
thoughts  of  love  —  and  by  love  I  mean  a 
noble     and     sensuous    passion,     absorbing 
the    energies    of    the    soul,    fulfilling    destiny,    and 
reducing  all  that  has  gone  before  it  to  the  level  of 
a  mere  prelude.     And  that  afternoon  in  autumn, 
the  eve  of  my  twenty-first  birthday,  I  was  more 
deeply  than  ever  immersed  in  amorous  dreams. 

I,  in  modern  costume,  sat  down  between  two 
pairs  of  candles  to  the  piano  in  the  decaying  draw- 
ing-room, which  like  a  spinster  strove  to  conceal 
its  age.  A  generous  fire  flamed  in  the  wide  grate 
behind  me;  warmth  has  always  been  to  me  the 
first  necessity  of  life.  I  turned  round  on  the  re- 
volving stool  and  faced  the  fire,  and  felt  it  on  my 
cheeks,  and  I  asked  myself:  "Why  am  I  affected 
like  this?  Why  -am  I  what  I  am?"  For  even 
before  beginning  to  play  the  Fantasia  of  Chopin, 
I  was  moved,  and  the  tears  had  come  into  my 

3 


4  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

eyes,  and  the  shudder  to  my  spine.  I  gazed  at 
the  room  inquiringly,  and  of  course  I  found  no 
answer.  It  was  one  of  those  rooms  whose  spacious 
and  consistent  ugliness  grows  old  into  a  sort  of 
beauty,  formidable  and  repellent,  but  impressive; 
an  early  Victorian  room,  large  and  stately  and 
symmetrical,  full  —  but  not  too  full  —  of  twisted 
and  tortured  mahogany,  green  rep,  lustres,  valances, 
fringes,  gilt  tassels.  The  green  and  gold  drapery 
of  the  two  high  windows,  and  here  and  there  a 
fine  curve  in  a  piece  of  furniture,  recalled  the  Empire 
period  and  the  deserted  Napoleonic  palaces  of 
France.  The  expanse  of  yellow  and  green  carpet 
had  been  married  to  the  floor  by  two  generations 
of  decorous  feet,  and  the  meaning  of  its  tints  was 
long  since  explained  awav.  Never  have  I  seen  a 
carpet  with  less  individuality  of  its  own  than  that 
carpet;  it  was  so  sweetly  faded,  amiable,  and  flat, 
that  its  sole  mission  in  the  world  seemed  to  be  to 
make  things  smooth  for  the  chairs.  The  wall- 
paper looked  like  pale  green  silk,  and  the  candles 
were  reflected  in  it  as  they  were  reflected  in  the 
crystals  of  the  chandelier.  The  grand  piano,  a 
Collard  and  Collard,  made  a  vast  mass  of  walnut 
in  the  chamber,  incongruous,  perhaps,  but  still 
there  was  something  in  its  mild  and  indecisive 
tone  that  responded  to  the  furniture.  It,  too, 
spoke  of  Evangelicalism,  the  "Christian  Year," 


THE  HOUSE  ENCHANTED  5 

and  a  dignified  reserved  confidence  in  Christ's 
blood.  It,  too,  defied  the  assault  of  time  and  the 
invasion  of  ideas.  It,  too,  protested  against  Chopin 
and  romance,  and  demanded  Thalberg's  variations 
on  "Home,  Sweet  Home." 

My  great-grandfather,  the  famous  potter  — 
second  in  renown  only  to  Wedgwood  —  had  built 
that  Georgian  house,  and  my  grandfather  had 
furnished  it;  and  my  parents,  long  since  dead,  had 
placidly  accepted  it  and  the  ideal  that  it  stood 
for;  and  it  had  devolved  upon  my  Aunt  Constance, 
and  ultimately  it  would  devolve  on  me,  the  scarlet 
woman  in  a  dress  of  virginal  white,  the  inexplicable 
offspring  of  two  changeless  and  blameless  families, 
the  secret  revolutionary,  the  living  lie!  How  had 
I  come  there? 

I  went  to  the  window,  and,  pulling  the  curtain 
aside,  looked  vaguely  out  into  the  damp,  black 
garden,  from  which  the  last  light  was  fading.  The 
red,  rectangular  house  stood  in  the  midst  of  the 
garden,  and  the  garden  was  surrounded  by  four 
brick  walls,  which  barricaded  it  from  four  streets 
where  dwelt  artisans  of  the  upper  class.  The 
occasional  rattling  of  a  cart  was  all  we  caught  of 
the  peaceable  rumour  of  the  town;  but  on  clear 
nights  the  furnaces  of  Cauldron  Bar  Ironworks  lit 
the  valley  for  us,  and  we  were  reminded  that  our 
refined  and  inviolate  calm  was  hemmed  in  by  rude 


6  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

activities.  On  the  east  border  of  the  garden  was 
a  row  of  poplars,  and  from  the  window  I  could 
see  the  naked  branches  of  the  endmost.  A  gas 
lamp  suddenly  blazed  behind  it  in  Acre  Lane,  and 
I  descried  a  bird  in  the  tree.  And  as  the  tree  waved 
its  plume  in  the  night-wind,  and  the  bird  swayed 
on  the  moving  twig,  and  the  gas  lamp  burned 
meekly  and  patiently  beyond,  I  seemed  to  catch 
in  these  simple  things  a  glimpse  of  the  secret  mean- 
ing of  human  existence,  such  as  one  gets  some- 
times, startlingly,  in  a  mood  of  idle  receptiveness. 
And  it  was  so  sad  and  so  beautiful,  so  full  of  an 
ecstatic  melancholy,  that  I  dropped  the  curtain. 
And  my  thought  ranged  lovingly  over  our  house- 
hold —  prim,  regular,  and  perfect:  my  old  aunt 
embroidering  in  the  breakfast-room,  and  Rebecca 
and  Lucy  ironing  in  the  impeccable  kitchen,  and 
not  one  of  them  with  the  least  suspicion  that  Adam 
had  not  really  waked  up  one  morning  minus  a  rib! 
I  wandered  in  fancy  all  over  the  house  —  the  attics, 
my  aunt's  bedroom  so  miraculously  neat,  and  mine 
so  unkempt,  and  the  dark  places  in  the  corridors 
where  clocks  ticked. 

I  had  the  sense  of  the  curious  compact  organism 
of  which  my  aunt  was  the  head,  and  into  which 
my  soul  had  strayed  by  some  caprice  of  fate.  What 
I  felt  was  that  the  organism  was  suspended  in  a 
sort  of  enchantment,  lifelessly  alive,  unconsciously 


THE  HOUSE  ENCHANTED  7 

expectant  of  the  magic  touch  which  would  break 
the  spell,  and  I  wondered  how  long  I  must  wait 
before  I  began  to  live.  I  know  now  that  I  was 
happy  in  those  serene  preliminary  years,  but  never- 
theless I  had  the  illusion  of  spiritual  woe.  I  sighed 
grievously  as  I  went  back  to  the  piano,  and  opened 
the  volume  of  Mikuli's  Chopin. 

Just  as  I  was  beginning  to  play,  Rebecca  came 
into  the  room.  She  was  a  maid  of  forty  years, 
and  stout;  absolutely  certain  of  a  few  things,  and 
quite  satisfied  in  her  ignorance  of  all  else;  an  im- 
portant person  in  our  house  and  therefore  an  im- 
portant person  in  the  created  universe,  of  which 
our  house  was  for  her  the  centre.  She  wore  the 
white  cap  with  distinction,  and  when  an  apron  was 
suspended  round  her  immense  waist  it  ceased  to  be 
an  apron,  and  became  a  symbol,  like  the  apron  of 
a  Freemason. 

"Well,  Rebecca?"  I  said,  without  turning  my 
head. 

I  guessed  urgency,  otherwise  Rebecca  would 
have  delegated  Lucy. 

"If  you  please,  Miss  Carlotta,  your  aunt  is  not 
feeling  well,  and  she  will  not  be  able  to  go  to  the 
concert  to-night." 

"Not  be  able  to  go  to  the  concert!"  I  repeated 
mechanically. 

"No,  miss." 


8  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

"I  will  come  downstairs." 

"If  I  were  you,  I  shouldn't,  miss.  She's  dozing 
a  bit  just  now." 

"Very  well." 

I  went  on  playing.  But  Chopin,  who  was  the 
chief  factor  in  my  emotional  life;  who  had  taught 
me  nearly  all  I  knew  of  grace,  wit,  and  tenderness; 
who  had  discovered  for  me  the  beauty  that  lay  in 
everything,  in  sensuous  exaltation  as  well  as  in 
asceticism,  in  grief  as  well  as  in  joy;  who  had  shown 
me  that  each  moment  of  life,  no  matter  what  its 
import,  should  be  lived  intensely  and  fully;  who  had 
carried  me  with  him  to  the  loftiest  heights  of  which 
passion  is  capable;  whose  music  I  spiritually  com- 
prehended to  a  degree  which  I  felt  to  be  extraor- 
dinary —  Chopin  had  almost  no  significance  for 
me  as  I  played  then  the  most  glorious  of  his  composi- 
tions. His  message  was  only  a  blurred  sound  in  my 
ears.  And  gradually  I  perceived,  as  the  soldier 
gradually  perceives  who  has  been  hit  by  a  bullet, 
that  I  was  wounded. 

The  shock  was  of  such  severity  that  at  first  I 
had  scarcely  noticed  it.  What?  My  aunt  not 
going  to  the  concert?  That  meant  that  I  could 
not  go.  But  it  was  impossible  that  I  should  not 
go.  I  could  not  conceive  my  absence  from  the 
concert  —  the  concert  which  I  had  been  anticipating 
and  -preparing  for  during  many  weeks.  We  went 


THE  HOUSE  ENCHANTED  9 

out  but  little,  Aunt  Constance  and  I.  An  oratorion, 
an  amateur  operatic  performance,  a  ballad  concert 
in  the  Bursley  Town  Hall  —  no  more  than  that; 
never  the  Hanbridge  Theatre.  And  now  Diaz 
was  coming  down  to  give  a  pianoforte  recital  in 
the  Jubilee  Hall  at  Hanbridge;  Diaz,  the  darling 
of  European  capitals;  Diaz,  whose  name  in  seven 
years  had  grown  legendary;  Diaz,  the  Liszt  and 
the  Rubinstein  of  my  generation,  and  the  greatest 
interpreter  of  Chopin  since  Chopin  died  —  Diaz! 
Diaz!  No  such  concert  had  ever  been  announced 
in  the  Five  Towns,  and  I  was  to  miss  it!  Our 
tickets  had  been  taken,  and  they  were  not  to  be 
used!  Unthinkable!  A  photograph  of  Diaz  stood 
in  a  silver  frame  on  the  piano;  I  gazed  at  it  fervently. 
I  said:  "I  will  hear  you  play  the  Fantasia  this 
night,  if  I  am  cut  in  pieces  for  it  to-morrow!" 
Diaz  represented  for  me,  then,  all  that  I  desired 
of  men.  All  my  dreams  of  love  and  freedom  crys- 
tallized suddenly  into  Diaz. 

I  ran  downstairs  to  the  breakfast-room. 

"You  aren't  going  to  the  concert,  auntie?"  I 
almost  sobbed. 

She  sat  in  her  rocking-chair,  and  the  gray  woollen 
shawl  drawn  round  her  shoulders  mingled  with 
her  gray  hair.  Her  long,  handsome  face  was  a  little 
pale,  and  her  dark  eyes  darker  than  usual. 

"I  don't  feel  well  enough,"  she  replied  calmly. 


io  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

She  had  not  observed  the  tremour  in  my  voice. 

"But  what's  the  matter?"  I  insisted. 

"Nothing  in  particular,  my  dear.  I  do  not  feel 
equal  to  the  exertion." 

"But,  auntie  —  then  I  can't  go,  either." 

"I'm  very  sorry,  dear,"  she  said.  "We  will  go 
to  the  next  concert." 

"Diaz  will  never  come  again!"  I  exclaimed  pas- 
sionately. "And  the  tickets  will  be  wasted." 

"My  dear,"  my  Aunt  Constance  repeated,  "I 
am  not  equal  to  it.  And  you  cannot  go  alone." 

I  was  utterly  selfish  in  that  moment.  I  cared 
nothing  whatever  for  my  aunt's  indisposition. 
Indeed,  I  secretly  accused  her  of  maliciously  choos- 
ing that  night  of  all  nights  for  her  mysterious  fatigue. 

"But,  auntie,"  I  said,  controlling  myself ,  "I  must 
go,  really.  I  shall  send  Lucy  over  with  a  note  to 
Ethel  Ryley  to  ask  her  to  go  with  me." 

"Do,"  said  my  aunt,  after  a  considerable  pause, 
"if  you  are  bent  on  going." 

I  have  often  thought  since  that  during  that 
pause,  while  we  faced  each  other,  my  aunt  had  for 
the  first  time  fully  realized  how  little  she  knew  of 
me;  she  must  surely  have  detected  in  my  glance  a 
strangeness,  a  contemptuous  indifference,  an  im- 
placable obstinacy,  which  she  had  never  seen  in  it 
before.  And,  indeed,  these  things  were  in  my 
glance.  Yet  I  loved  my  aunt  with  a  deep  affec- 


THE  HOUSE  ENCHANTED  11 

tion.  I  had  only  one  grievance  against  her.  Al- 
though excessively  proud,  she  would  always,  in 
conversation  with  men,  admit  her  mental  and 
imaginative  inferiority,  and  that  of  her  sex.  She 
would  admit,  without  being  asked,  that  being  a 
woman  she  could  not  see  far,  that  her  feminine 
brain  could  not  carry  an  argument  to  the  end,  and 
that  her  feminine  purpose  was  too  infirm  for  any 
great  enterprise.  She  seemed  to  find  a  morbid 
pleasure  in  such  confessions.  As  regards  herself, 
they  were  accurate  enough;  the  dear  creature  was 
a  singularly  good  judge  of  her  own  character. 
What  I  objected  to  was  her  assumption,  so  calm 
and  gratuitous,  that  her  individuality,  with  all  its 
confessed  limitations,  was  of  course  superior  — 
stronger,  wiser,  subtler  than  mine.  She  never 
allowed  me  to  argue  with  her;  or  if  she  did,  she 
treated  my  remarks  with  a  high,  amused  tolerance. 
"Wait  till  you  grow  older,"  she  would  observe, 
magnificently  ignorant  of  the  fact  that  my  soul  was 
already  far  older  than  hers.  This  attitude  naturally 
made  me  secretive  in  all  affairs  of  the  mind,  and  most 
affairs  of  the  heart. 

We  took  in  the  county  papers,  the  Staffordshire 
Recorder,  and  the  Rock  and  the  Quiver.  With  the 
help  of  these  organs  of  thought,  which  I  detested 
and  despised,  I  was  supposed  to  be  able  to  keep 
discreetly  and  sufficiently  abreast  of  the  times. 


12  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

But  I  had  other  aids.  I  went  to  the  Girls'  High 
School  at  Oldcastle  till  I  was  nearly  eighteen. 
One  of  the  mistresses  there  used  to  read  continually 
a  red  book  covered  with  brown  paper.  I  knew  it 
to  be  a  red  book  because  the  paper  was  gone  at  the 
corners.  I  admired  the  woman  immensely;  and 
her  extraordinary  interest  in  the  book  —  she  would 
pick  it  up  at  every  spare  moment  —  excited  in 
me  an  ardent  curiosity.  One  day  I  got  a  chance 
to  open  it,  and  I  read  on  the  tit\e-pa.ge,"Introduction 
to  the  Study  of  Sociology,  by  Herbert  Spencer."  Turn- 
ing the  pages,  I  encountered  some  remarks  on 
Napoleon  that  astonished  and  charmed  me.  I  said: 
"Why  are  not  our  school  histories  like  this?"  The 
owner  of  the  book  caught  me.  I  asked  her  to  lend 
it  to  me,  but  she  would  not,  nor  would  she  give  me 
any  reason  for  declining.  Soon  afterwards  I  left 
school.  I  persuaded  my  aunt  to  let  me  join  the 
Free  Library  at  the  Wedgwood  Institution.  But 
the  book  was  not  in  the  catalogue.  (How  often, 
in  exchanging  volumes,  did  I  not  gaze  into  the  read- 
ing-room, where  men  read  the  daily  papers  and  the 
magazines,  without  daring  to  enter!)  At  length  I 
audaciously  decided  to  buy  the  book.  I  ordered 
it,  not  at  our  regular  stationer's  in  Oldcastle  street, 
but  at  a  little  shop  of  the  same  kind  in  Trafalgar 
Road.  In  three  days  it  arrived.  I  called  for  it, 
and  took  it  home  secretly  in  a.  cardboard  envelope- 


THE  HOUSE  ENCHANTED  13 

box.  I  went  to  bed  early,  and  I  began  to  read. 
I  read  all  night,  thirteen  hours.  O  book  with  the 
misleading  title  —  for  you  have  nothing  to  do  with 
sociology,  and  you  ought  to  have  been  called 
How  to  Think  Honestly  —  my  face  flushed  again 
and  again  as  I  perused  your  ugly  yellowish  pages! 
Again  and  again  I  exclaimed:  "But  this  is  mar- 
vellous!" I  had  not  guessed  that  anything  so 
honest,  and  so  courageous,  and  so  simple,  and  so 
convincing  had  ever  been  written.  There  are  those 
who  assert  that  Spencer  was  not  a  supreme  genius! 
At  any  rate  he  taught  me  intellectual  courage; 
he  taught  me  that  nothing  is  sacred  that  will  not 
bear  inspection;  and  I  adore  his  memory.  The 
next  morning  after  breakfast  I  fell  asleep  in  a  chair. 
"My  dear!"  protested  Aunt  Constance.  "Ah,"  I 
thought,  "if  you  knew,  Aunt  Constance,  if  you  had 
the  least  suspicion,  of  the  ideas  that  are  surging 
and  shining  in  my  head,  you  would  go  mad  —  go 
simply  mad!"  I  did  not  care  much  for  deception, 
but  I  positively  hated  clumsy  concealment,  and  the 
red  book  was  in  the  house;  at  any  moment  it  might 
be  seized.  On  a  shelf  of  books  in  my  bedroom  was 
a  novel  called  The  Old  Helmet,  probably  the  silliest 
novel  in  the  world.  I  tore  the  pages  from  the 
binding  and  burnt  them;  I  tore  the  binding  from 
Spencer  and  burnt  it;  and  I  put  my  treasure  in 
the  covers  of  The  Old  Helmet.  Once  Rebecca, 


14  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

a  person  privileged,  took  the  thing  away  to  read; 
but  she  soon  brought  it  back.  She  told  me  she 
had  always  understood  that  The  Old  Helmet  was 
more  interesting  than  that. 

Later,  I  discovered  The  Origin  of  Species  in  the 
Free  Library.  It  finished  the  work  of  corruption. 
Spencer  had  shown  me  how  to  think;  Darwin  told 
me  what  to  think.  The  whole  of  my  upbringing 
went  for  naught  thenceforward.  I  lived  a  double 
life.  I  said  nothing  to  my  aunt  of  the  miracle 
wrought  within  me,  and  she  suspected  nothing. 
Strange  and  uncanny,  is  it  not,  that  such  miracles 
can  escape  the  observation  of  a  loving  heart? 
I  loved  her  as  much  as  ever,  perhaps  more  than  ever. 
Thank  Heaven  that  love  can  laugh  at  reason! 

So  much  for  my  intellectual  inner  life.  My 
emotional  inner  life  is  less  easy  to  indicate.  I 
became  a  woman  at  fifteen  —  years,  interminable 
years,  before  I  left  school.  I  guessed  even  then, 
vaguely,  that  my  nature  was  extremely  emotional 
and  passionate.  And  I  had  nothing  literary  on 
which  to  feed  my  dreams,  save  a  few  novels  which 
I  despised,  and  the  Bible  and  the  plays  and  poems 
of  Shakespeare.  It  is  wonderful,  though,  what 
good  I  managed  to  find  in  those  two  use-worn 
volumes.  I  knew  most  of  the  Songs  of  Solomon 
by  heart,  and  many  of  the  sonnets;  and  I  will 
not  mince  the  fact  that  my  favourite  play  was 


THE  HOUSE  ENCHANTED  15 

Measure  for  Measure.  I  was  an  innocent  virgin, 
in  the  restricted  sense  in  which  most  girls  of  my 
class  and  age  are  innocent,  but  I  obtained  from 
these  works  many  a  lofty  pang  of  thrilling  pleasure. 
They  illustrated  Chopin  for  me,  giving  precision 
and  particularity  to  his  messages.  And  I  was 
ashamed  of  myself!  Yes;  at  the  bottom  of  my 
heart  I  was  ashamed  of  myself  because  my  sensuous 
being  responded  to  the  call  of  these  masterpieces. 
In  my  ignorance  I  thought  I  was  lapsing  from  a 
sane  and  proper  ideal.  And  then  —  the  second 
miracle  in  my  career,  which  has  been  full  of  miracles 
—  I  came  across  a  casual  reference,  in  the  Staf- 
fordshire Recorder,  of  all  places,  to  the  Mademoiselle 
de  Maupin,  of  Theophile  Gautier.  Something  in 
the  reference,  I  no  longer  remember  what,  caused 
me  to  guess  that  the  book  was  a  revelation  of  matters 
hidden  from  me.  I  bought  it.  With  the  assistance 
of  a  dictionary,  I  read  it,  nightly,  in  about  a  week. 
Except  Picciola,  it  was  the  first  French  novel  I 
had  ever  read.  It  held  me  throughout;  it  revealed 
something  on  nearly  every  page.  But  the  climax 
dazzled  and  blinded  me.  It  was  exquisite,  so  high 
and  pure,  so  startling,  so  bold,  that  it  made  me  ill. 
When  I  recovered  I  had  fast  in  my  heart's  keeping 
the  new  truth  that  in  the  body,  and  the  instincts  of 
the  body,  there  should  be  no  shame,  but  rather  a 
frank,  joyous  pride.  From  that  moment  I  ceased 


16  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

to  be  ashamed  of  anything  that  I  honestly  liked. 
But  I  dared  not  keep  the  book.  The  knowledge 
of  its  contents  would  have  killed  my  aunt.  I 
read  it  again;  read  the  last  pages  several  times, 
and  then  I  burnt  it  and  breathed  freely. 

Such  was  I,  as  I  forced  my  will  on  my  aunt  in 
the  affair  of  the  concert.  And  I  say  that  she  who 
had  never  suspected  the  existence  of  the  real  me, 
suspected  it  then,  when  we  glanced  at  each  other 
across  the  breakfast-room.  Upon  these  apparent 
trifles  life  swings,  as  upon  a  pivot,  into  new  direc- 
tions. 

I  sat  with  my  aunt  while  Lucy  went  with  the 
note.  She  returned  soon  with  the  reply,  and  the 
reply  was : 

"So  sorry  I  can't  accept  your  kind  invitation. 
I  should  have  liked  to  go  awfully.  But  Fred 
has  got  the  toothache,  and  I  must  not  leave  him." 

The  toothache!  and  my  very  life,  so  it  seemed 
to  me,  hung  in  the  balance. 

I  did  not  hesitate  one  second. 

"Hurrah!"  I  cried.  "She  can  go.  I  am  to  call 
for  her  in  the  cab." 

And  I  crushed  the  note  cruelly,  and  threw  it  in 
the  fire. 

"Tell  him  to  call  at  Ryleys',"  I  said  to  Rebecca, 
as  she  was  putting  me  and  my  dress  into  the  cab. 

And  she  told  the  cabman  with  that  sharp  voice 


THE  HOUSE  ENCHANTED  17 

of  hers,  always  arrogant  toward  inferiors,  to  call 
at  RyleysV 

I  put  my  head  out  of  the  cab  window  as  soon 
a«  we  were  in  Oldcastle  street. 

"Drive  straight  to  Hanbridge,"  I  ordered, 

The  thing  was  done. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE    CONCERT 

HE  was  like  his  photograph,  but  the  photo- 
graph had  given  me  only  a  very  inade- 
quate idea  of  him.  The  photograph  could 
not  render  his  extraordinary  fairness,  nor  the  rich 
gold  of  his  hair,  nor  the  blue  of  his  dazzling  eyes. 
The  first  impression  was  that  he  was  too  beautiful  for 
a  man,  that  he  had  a  woman's  beauty,  that  he  had  the 
waxen  beauty  of  a  doll;  but  the  firm,  decisive 
lines  of  the  mouth  and  chin,  the  overhanging  brows, 
and  the  luxuriance  of  his  amber  moustache,  spoke 
more  sternly.  Gradually  one  perceived  that  be- 
neath the  girlish  mask,  beneath  the  contours  and 
the  complexion  incomparably  delicate,  there  was 
an  individuality  intensely  and  provocatively  male. 
His  body  was  rather  less  than  tall,  and  it  was  mus- 
cular and  springy.  He  walked  onto  the  platform 
as  an  unspoilt  man  should  walk,  and  he  bowed  to 
the  applause  as  if  bowing  chivalrously  to  a  woman 
whom  he  respected  but  did  not  love.  '  Diaz  was 
twenty-six  that  year;  he  had  recently  returned  from 
a  tour  round  the  world;  he  was  filled  full  of  triumph, 

18 


THE  CONCERT  19 

renown,  and  adoration.  As  I  have  said,  he  was 
already  legendary.  He  had  become  so  great  and 
so  marvellous  that  those  who  had  never  seen  him 
were  in  danger  of  forgetting  that  he  was  a  living 
human  being,  obliged  to  eat  and  drink,  and  practise 
scales,  and  visit  his  tailor's.  Thus  it  had  happened 
to  me.  During  the  first  moments  I  found  myself 
thinking,  "This  cannot  be  Diaz.  It  is  not  true 
that  at  last  I  see  him.  There  must  be  some  mis- 
take." Then  he  sat  down  leisurely  to  the  piano; 
his  gaze  ranged  across  the  hall,  and  I  fancied  that, 
for  a  second,  it  met  mine.  My  two  seats  were  in 
the  first  row  of  the  stalls,  and  I  could  see  every 
slightest  change  of  his  face.  So  that  at  length 
I  felt  that  Diaz  was  real,  and  that  he  was  really 
there  close  in  front  of  me,  a  seraph  and  yet  very 
human.  He  was  all  alone  on  the  great  platform, 
and  the  ebonized  piano  seemed  huge  and  formid- 
able before  him.  And  all  around  was  the  careless 
public  —  ignorant,  unsympathetic,  exigent,  im- 
patient, even  inimical  —  two  thousand  persons 
who  would  get  value  for  their  money  or  know  the 
reason  why.  The  electric  light  and  the  inclement 
gaze  of  society  rained  down  cruelly  upon  that  de- 
fenceless head.  I  wanted  to  protect  it.  The 
tears  rose  to  my  eyes,  and  I  stretched  out  toward 
Diaz  the  hands  of  my  soul.  My  passionate  sym- 
pathy must  have  reached  him  like  a  beneficent 


20  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

influence,  of  which,  despite  the  perfect  self-possession 
and  self-confidence  of  his  demeanour,  it  seemed  to 
me  that  he  had  need. 

I  had  risked  much  that  night.  I  had  committed 
an  enormity.  No  one  but  a  grown  woman  who 
still  vividly  remembers  her  girlhood  can  appreciate 
my  feelings  as  I  drove  from  Bursley  to  Hanbridge 
in  the  cab,  and  as  I  got  out  of  the  cab  in  the  crowd, 
and  gave  up  my  ticket,  and  entered  the  glittering 
auditorium  of  the  Jubilee  Hall.  I  was  alone,  at 
night,  in  the  public  places,  under  the  eye  of  the 
world.  And  I  was  guiltily  alone.  Every  fibre  of 
my  body  throbbed  with  the  daring  and  the  danger 
and  the  romance  of  the  adventure.  The  horror 
of  revealing  the  truth  to  Aunt  Constance,  as  I  was 
bound  to  do  —  of  telling  her  that  I  had  lied,  and 
that  I  had  left  my  maiden's  modesty  behind  in 
my  bedroom,  gripped  me  at  intervals  like  some 
appalling  and  exquisite  instrument  of  torture. 
And  yet,  ere  Diaz  had  touched  the  piano  with 
his  broad  white  hand,  I  was  content,  I  was  rewarded, 
and  I  was  justified. 

The  programme  began  with  Chopin's  first  Bal- 
lade. 

There  was  an  imperative  summons,  briefly  sus- 
tained, which  developed  into  an  appeal  and  an 
invocation,  ascending,  falling,  and  still  higher 
ascending,  till  it  faded  and  expired,  and  then,  after 


THE  CONCERT  21 

a  little  pause,  was  revived;  then  silence,  and  two 
chords,  defining  and  clarifying  the  vagueness  of  the 
appeal  and  the  invocation.  And  then,  almost 
before  I  was  aware  of  it,  there  stole  forth  from 
under  the  fingers  of  Diaz  the  song  of  the  soul  of 
man,  timid,  questioning,  plaintive,  neither  sad  nor 
joyous,  but  simply  human,  seeking  what  it  might 
find  on  earth.  The  song  changed  subtly  from 
mood  to  mood,  expressing  that  which  nothing  but 
itself  could  express;  and  presently  there  was  a  low 
and  gentle  menace,  thrice  repeated  under  the 
melody  of  the  song,  and  the  reply  of  the  song  was 
a  proud  cry,  a  haughty  contempt  of  these  furtive 
warnings,  and  a  sudden  winged  leap  into  the  em- 
pyrean toward  the  Eternal  Spirit.  And  then  the 
melody  was  lost  in  a  depth,  and  the  song  became 
turgid  and  wild  and  wilder,  hysteric,  irresolute, 
frantically  groping,  until  at  last  it  found  its  salva- 
tion and  its  peace.  And  the  treasure  was  veiled 
in  a  mist  of  arpeggios,  but  one  by  one  these  were 
torn  way,  and  there  was  a  hush,  a  pause,  and  a 
preparation;  and  the  soul  of  man  broke  into  a  new 
song  of  what  it  had  found  on  earth  —  the  magic 
of  the  tenderness  of  love  —  an  air  so  caressing  and 
so  sweet,  so  calmly  happy  and  so  mournfully  sane, 
so  bereft  of  illusions  and  so  naive,  that  it  seemed 
to  reveal  in  a  few  miraculous  phrases  the  secret 
intentions  of  God.  It  was  too  beautiful;  it  told 


22  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

me  too  much  about  myself;  it  vibrated  my  nerves 
to  such  an  unbearable  spasm  of  pleasure  that  I 
might  have  died  had  I  not  willed  to  live.  .  .  . 
It  gave  plade  momentarily  to  the  song  of  the  ques- 
tion and  the  search,  but  only  to  return,  and  to  return 
again,  with  a  more  thrilling  and  glorious  assurance. 
It  was  drowned  in  doubt,  but  it  emerged  trium- 
phantly, covered  with  noble  and  delicious  ornaments, 
and  swimming  strongly  on  mysterious  waves. 
And  finally,  with  speed  and  with  fire,  it  was  trans- 
formed and  caught  up  into  the  last  ecstasy,  the 
ultimate  passion.  The  soul  swept  madly  between 
earth  and  heaven,  fell,  rose;  and  there  was  a  dreadful 
halt.  Then  a  loud  blast,  a  distortion  of  the  magic, 
an  upward  rush,  another  and  a  louder  blast,  and  a 
thunderous  fall,  followed  by  two  massive  and 
terrifying  chords.  .  .  . 

Diaz  was  standing  up  and  bowing  to  his  public. 
What  did  they  understand?  Did  they  understand 
anything?  I  cannot  tell.  But  I  know  that  they 
felt.  A  shudder  of  feeling  had  gone  through  the 
hall.  It  was  in  vain  that  people  tried  to  emanci- 
pate themselves  from  the  spell  by  the  violence  of 
their  applause.  They  could  not.  We  were  all 
together  under  the  enchantment.  Some  may  have 
seen  clearly,  some  darkly;  but  we  were  equal  before 
the  throne  of  that  mighty  enchanter.  And  the  en- 
chanter bowed  and  bowed  with  a  grave,  sym- 


THE  CONCERT  23 

pathetic  smile,  and  then  disappeared.  I  had  not 
clapped  my  hands;  I  had  not  moved.  Only  my 
full  eyes  had  followed  him  as  he  left  tne  platiorm; 
and  when  he  returned  —  because  the  applause  would 
not  cease  —  my  eyes  watched  over  him  as  he  came 
back  to  the  centre  of  the  platform.  He  stood 
directly  in  front  of  me,  smiling  more  gaily  now. 
And  suddenly  our  glances  met!  Yes;  I  could  not 
be  mistaken.  They  met,  and  mine  held  his  for 
several  seconds.  .  .  .  Diaz  had  looked  at  me. 
Diaz  had  singled  me  out  from  the  crowd.  I  blushed 
hotly,  and  I  was  conscious  of  a  surpassing  joy. 
My  spirit  was  transfigured.  I  knew  that  such  a 
man  was  above  kings.  I  knew  that  the  world 
and  everything  of  loveliness  that  it  contained  was 
his.  I  knew  that  he  moved  like  a  beautiful  god 
through  the  groves  of  delight,  and  that  what  he 
did  was  right,  and  whom  he  beckoned  came,  and 
whom  he  touched  was  blessed.  And  my  eyes  had 
held  his  eyes  for  a  little  space. 

The  enchantment  deepened.  I  had  read  that 
the  secret  of  playing  Chopin  had  died  with  Chopin; 
but  I  felt  sure  that  evening,  as  I  have  felt  sure 
since,  that  Chopin  himself,  aristocrat  of  the  soul 
as  he  was,  would  have  received  Diaz  as  an  equal, 
might  even  have  acknowledged  in  him  a  superior. 
For  Diaz  had  a  physique,  and  he  had  a  mastery, 
a  tyranny,  of  the  keyboard  that  Chopin  could  not 


24  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

have  possessed.  Diaz  had  come  to  the  front  in 
a  generation  of  pianists  who  had  lifted  technique 
to  a  plane  of  which  neither  Liszt  nor  Rubinstein 
dreamed.  He  had  succeeded  primarily  by  his 
gigantic  and  incredible  technique.  And  then,  when 
his  technique  had  astounded  the  world,  he  had 
invited  the  world  to  forget  it,  as  the  glass  is  for- 
gotten through  which  is  seen  beauty.  And  Diaz's 
gift  was  now  such  that  there  appeared  to  inter- 
vene nothing  between  his  conception  of  the  music 
and  the  strings  of  the  piano,  so  perfected  was 
the  mechanism.  Difficulties  had  ceased  to 
exist. 

The  performance  of  some  pianists  is  so  wonder- 
ful that  it  seems  as  if  they  were  crossing  Niagara 
on  a  tight-rope,  and  you  tremble  lest  they  should 
fall  off.  It  was  not  so  with  Diaz.  When  Diaz 
played  you  experienced  the  pure  emotions  caused 
by  the  unblurred  contemplation  of  that  beauty 
which  the  great  masters  had  created,  and  which 
Diaz  had  tinted  with  the  rare  dyes  of  his  person- 
ality. You  forgot  all  but  beauty.  The  piano 
was  not  a  piano;  it  was  an  Arabian  magic  beyond 
physical  laws,  and  it,  too,  had  a  soul. 

So  Diaz  laid  upon  us  the  enchantment  of  Chopin 
and  of  himself.  Mazurkas,  nocturnes,  waltzes, 
scherzos,  polonaises,  preludes,  he  exhibited  to  us 
in  groups  those  manifestations  of  that  supreme 


THE  CONCERT  25 

spirit  —  that  spirit  at  once  stern  and  tender,  not 
more  sad  than  joyous,  and  always  sane,  always 
perfectly  balanced,  always  preoccupied  with  beauty. 
The  singular  myth  of  a  Chopin  decadent,  weary, 
erratic,  mournful,  hysterical,  at  odds  with  fate, 
was  completely  dissipated;  and  we  perceived  in- 
stead the  grave  artist  nourished  on  Bach  and  stu- 
dious in  form,  and  the  strong  soul  that  had  dared 
to  look  on  life  as  it  is,  and  had  found  beauty  every- 
where. Ah!  how  the  air  trembled  and  glittered 
with  visions!  How  melody  and  harmony  filled 
every  corner  of  the  hall  with  the  silver  and  gold 
of  sound!  How  the  world  was  changed  out  of 
recognition!  How  that  which  had  seemed  unreal 
became  real,  and  that  which  had  seemed  real 
receded  to  a  horizon  remote  and  fantastic!  .  .  . 
He  was  playing  the  fifteenth  Prelude  in  D  flat 
now,  and  the  water  was  dripping,  dripping  cease- 
lessly on  the  dead  body,  and  the  beautiful  calm 
song  rose  serenely  in  the  dream,  and  then  lost 
itself  amid  the  presaging  chords  of  some  sinister 
fate,  and  came  again,  exquisite  and  fresh  as  ever, 
and  then  was  interrupted  by  a  high  note  like  a 
clarion;  and  while  Diaz  held  that  imperious,  com- 
pelling note,  he  turned  his  face  slightly  from  the 
piano  and  gazed  at  me.  Several  times  since  the 
first  time  our  eyes  had  met,  by  accident  as  I  thought. 
But  this  was  a  deliberate  seeking  on  his  part. 


26  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

Again  I  flushed  hotly.  Again  I  had  the  terrible 
shudder  of  joy.  I  feared  for  a  moment  lest  all  the 
Five  Towns  was  staring  at  me,  thus  singled  out  by 
Diaz;  but  it  was  not  so:  I  had  the  wit  to  perceive 
that  no  one  could  remark  me  as  the  recipient  of 
that  humid  and  burning  glance.  He  had  half 
a  dozen  bars  to  play,  yet  his  eyes  did  not  leave 
mine,  and  I  would  not  let  mine  leave  his.  He  re- 
mained moveless  while  the  last  chord  expired,  and 
then  it  seemed  to  me  that  his  gaze  had  gone 
further,  had  passed  through  me  into  some  unknown. 
The  applause  startled  him  to  his  feet. 

My  thought  was:  "What!  Can  he  be  thinking 
of  me?  .  .  .  But  hundreds  of  women  must 
have  loved  him!" 

In  the  interval  an  attendant  came  onto  the 
platform  and  altered  the  position  of  the  piano. 
Everybody  asked:  "What's  that  for?"  For  the 
new  position  was  quite  an  unusual  one;  it  brought 
the  tail  of  the  piano  nearer  to  the  audience,  and 
gave  a  better  view  of  the  keyboard  to  the  occupants 
of  the  seats  in  the  orchestra  behind  the  platform. 
"It's  a  question  of  the  acoustics,  that's  what  it 
is,"  observed  a  man  near  me,  and  a  woman  replied: 
"Oh,  I  see!" 

When  Diaz  returned  and  seated  himself  to  play 
the  Berceuse,  I  saw  that  he  could  look  at  me  with- 
out turning  his  head.  And  now,  instead  of  flush- 


THE  CONCERT  27 

ing,  I  went  cold.  My  spine  gave  way  suddenly. 
I  began  to  be  afraid;  but  of  what  I  was  afraid  I 
had  not  the  least  idea.  I  fixed  my  eyes  on  my 
programme  as  he  launched  into  the  Berceuse. 
Twice  I  glanced  up,  without,  however,  moving 
my  head,  and  each  time  his  burning  blue  eyes  met 
mine.  (But  why  did  I  choose  moments  when  the 
playing  of  the  piece  demanded  less  than  all  his 
attention?)  The  Berceuse  was  a  favourite.  In 
sentiment  it  was  simpler  than  the  great  pieces  that 
had  preceded  it.  Its  excessive  delicacy  attracted; 
the  finesse  of  its  embroidery  enraptured  the  au- 
dience; and  the  applause  at  the  close  was  mad, 
deafening,  and  peremptory.  But  Diaz  was  notor- 
ious as  a  refuser  of  encores.  It  had  been  said  that 
he  would  see  a  hall  wrecked  by  an  angry  mob  before 
he  would  enlarge  his  programme.  Four  times  he 
came  forward  and  acknowledged  the  tribute,  and 
four  times  he  went  back.  At  the  fifth  response 
he  halted  directly  in  front  of  me,  and  in  his  bold, 
grave  eyes  I  saw  a  question.  I  saw  it,  and  I  would 
not  answer.  If  he  had  spoken  aloud  to  me  I  could 
not  have  more  clearly  understood.  But  I  would 
not  answer.  And  then  some  power  within  myself, 
hitherto  unsuspected  by  me,  some  natural  force, 
took  possession  of  me,  and  I  nodded  my  head.  .  .  . 
Diaz  went  to  the  piano. 

He  hesitated,   brushing  lightly  the  keys. 


28  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

"The  Prelude  in  F  sharp,"  my  thought  ran.  "If 
he  would  play  that!" 

And  instantly  he  broke  into  that  sweet  air,  with 
its  fateful  hushed  accompaniment  —  the  trifle  which 
Chopin  threw  off  in  a  moment  of  his  highest  inspi- 
ration. 

"It  is  the  thirteenth  Prelude,"  I  reflected.  I  was 
disturbed,  profoundly  troubled. 

The  next  piece  was  the  last,  and  it  was  the  Fan- 
tasia, the  masterpiece  of  Chopin. 

In  the  Fantasia  there  speaks  the  voice  of  a  spirit 
which  had  attained  all  that  humanity  may  attain 
of  wisdom,  of  power,  of  pride  and  glory.  And 
now  it  is  like  the  roll  of  an  army  marching  slowly 
through  terrific  defiles,  and  now  it  is  like  the  quiet 
song  of  royal  wanderers  meditating  in  vast  garden 
landscapes,  with  mossy  masonry  and  long  pools 
and  cypresses,  and  a  sapphire  star  shining  in  the 
purple  sky  on  the  shoulder  of  a  cypress;  and  now 
it  is  like  the  cry  of  a  lost  traveller,  who,  plunging 
heavily  through  a  virgin  forest,  conies  suddenly 
upon  a  green  circular  sward,  smooth  as  a  carpet, 
with  an  antique  statue  of  a  beautiful  nude  girl  in 
the  midst;  and  now  it  is  like  the  oratory  of  richly- 
gowned  philosophers  awaiting  death  in  gorgeous 
and  gloomy  palaces;  and  now  it  is  like  the  upward 
rush  of  winged  things  that  are  determined  to  achieve, 
knowing  well  the  while  that  the  ecstasy  of  longing 


THE  CONCERT  29 

is  better  than  the  assuaging  of  desire.  And  though 
the  voice  of  this  spirit  speaking  in  the  music  dis- 
guises itself  so  variously,  it  is  always  the  same. 
For  it  cannot,  and  it  would  not,  hide  the  strange 
and  rare  timbre  which  distinguishes  it  from  all 
others  —  that  quality  which  springs  from  a  pure 
and  calm  vision  of  life.  The  voice  of  this  spirit 
says  that  it  has  lost  every  illusion  about  life,  and 
that  life  seems  only  the  more  beautiful.  It  says 
that  activity  is  but  another  form  of  contemplation, 
pain  but  another  form  of  pleasure,  power  but 
another  form  of  weakness,  hate  but  another  form 
of  love,  and  that  it  is  well  these  things  should  be 
so.  It  says  there  is  no  end,  only  a  means;  and 
that  the  highest  joy  is  to  suffer,  and  the  supreme 
wisdom  is  to  exist.  If  you  will  but  live,  it  cries, 
that  grave  but  yet  passionate  voice  —  if  you  will 
but  live!  Were  there  a  heaven,  and  you  reached  it, 
you  could  do  no  more  than  live.  The  true  heaven 
is  here  where  you  live,  where  you  strive  and  lose, 
and  weep  and  laugh.  And  the  true  hell  is  here, 
where  you  forget  to  live,  and  blind  your  eyes 
to  the  omnipresent  and  terrible  beauty  of  existence. 
No,  no;  I  cannot — I  cannot  describe  further 
the  experiences  of  my  soul  while  Diaz  played. 
When  words  cease,  music  has  scarcely  begun.  I 
know  now  —  I  did  not  know  it  then  —  that  Diaz 
was  playing  as  perhaps  he  had  never  played  before. 


30  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

The  very  air  was  charged  with  exquisite  emotion, 
which  went  in  waves  across  the  hall,  changing  and 
blanching  faces,  troubling  hearts,  and  moistening 
eyes.  .  .  .  And  then  he  finished.  It  was  over. 
In  every  trembling  breast  was  a  pang  of  regret 
that  this  spell,  this  miracle,  this  divine  revolution 
could  not  last  into  eternity.  .  .  .  He  stood 
bowing,  one  hand  touching  the  piano.  And  as 
the  revolution  he  had  accomplished  in  us  was 
divine,  so  was  he  divine.  I  felt,  and  many  another 
woman  in  the  audience  felt,  that  no  reward  could 
be  too  great  for  the  beautiful  and  gifted  creature 
who  had  entranced  us  and  forced  us  to  see  what 
alone  in  life  was  worth  seeing:  that  the  whole  world 
should  be  his  absolute  dominion;  that  his  happiness 
should  be  the  first  concern  of  mankind;  that  if  a 
thousand  suffered  in  order  to  make  him  happy  for 
a  moment,  it  mattered  not;  that  laws  were  not  for 
him;  that  if  he  sinned,  his  sin  must  not  be  called  a 
sin,  and  that  he  must  be  excused  from  remorse  and 
from  any  manner  of  woe. 

The  applauding  multitude  stood  up,  and  moved 
slightly  toward  the  exits,  and  then  stopped,  as  if 
ashamed  of  this  readiness  to  desert  the  sacred 
temple.  Diaz  came  forward  three  times,  and  each 
time  the  applause  increased  to  a  tempest;  but  he 
only  smiled  —  smiled  gravely.  I  could  not  see 
distinctly  whether  his  eyes  had  sought  mine,  for 


THE  CONCERT  31 

mine  were  full  of  tears.  No  persuasions  could 
induce  him  to  show  himself  a  fourth  time,  and  at 
length  a  middle-aged  man  appeared  and  stated 
that  Diaz  was  extremely  gratified  by  his  reception, 
but  that  he  was  also  extremely  exhausted  and  had 
left  the  hall. 

We  departed,  we  mortals;  and  I  was  among 
the  last  to  leave  the  auditorium.  As  I  left,  the 
lights  were  being  extinguished  over  the  platform, 
and  an  attendant  was  closing  the  piano.  The 
foyer  was  crowded  with  people  waiting  to  get  out. 
The  word  passed  that  it  was  raining  heavily.  I 
wondered  how  I  should  find  my  cab.  I  felt  very 
lonely  and  unknown;  I  was  overcome  with  sad- 
ness —  with  a  sense  of  the  futility  and  frustration 
of  my  life.  Such  is  the  logic  of  the  soul,  and  such 
the  force  of  reaction.  Gradually  the  foyer  emptied. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE    GARDEN   OF  LOVE 

YOU  think  I  am  happy,"  said  Diaz,  gazing 
at  me  with  a  smile  suddenly  grave;  "but 
I  am  not.  I  seek  something  which  I 
cannot  find.  And  my  playing  is  only  a  relief  from 
the  fruitless  search;  only  that.  I  am  forlorn." 

"You!"  I  exclaimed,  and  my  eyes  rested  on  his, 
long. 

Yes,  we  had  met.  Perhaps  it  had  been  inevitable 
since  the  beginning  of  time  that  we  should  meet; 
but  it  was  none  the  less  amazing.  Perhaps  I  had 
inwardly  known  that  we  should  meet;  but,  none 
the  less,  I  was  astounded  when  a  coated  and  muffled 
figure  came  up  swiftly  to  me  in  the  emptying  foyer, 
and  said:  "Ah!  you  are  here!  I  cannot  leave  with- 
out thanking  you  for  your  sympathy.  I  have  never 
before  felt  such  sympathy  while  playing."  It 
was  a  golden  voice,  pitched  low,  and  the  words 
were  uttered  with  a  very  slight  foreign  accent, 
which  gave  them  piquancy.  I  could  not  reply; 
something  rose  in  my  throat,  and  the  caressing 
voice  continued:  "You  are  pale.  Do  you  feel  ill? 
32 


THE  GARDEN  OF  LOVE  33 

What  can  I  do?  Come  with  me  to  the  artist's 
room;  my  secretary  is  there."  I  put  out  a  hand 
gropingly,  for  I  could  not  see  clearly,  and  I  thought 
I  should  reel  and  fall.  It  touched  his  shoulder. 
He  took  my  arm,  and  we  went;  no  one  had  noticed 
us,  and  I  had  not  spoken  a  word.  In  the  room  to 
which  he  guided  me,  through  a  long  and  sombre 
corridor,  there  was  no  sign  of  a  secretary.  I  drank 
some  water.  "There,  you  are  better!"  he  cried. 
"Thank  you,"  I  said,  but  scarcely  whispering. 
"How  fortunate  I  ventured  to  come  to  you  just 
at  that  moment!  You  might  have  fallen;"  and  he 
smiled  again.  I  shook  my  head.  I  said:  "It  was 
your  coming  —  that  —  that  —  made  me  dizzy! " 

"I  profoundly  regret "  he  began.     "No,  no," 

I  interrupted  him;  and  in  that  instant  I  knew  I 
was  about  to  say  something  which  society  would, 
justifiably,  deem  unpardonable  in  a  girl  situated  as 
I  was.  "I  am  so  glad  you  came;"  and  I  smiled, 
courageous  and  encouraging.  For  once  in  my  life 
—  for  the  first  time  in  my  adult  life  —  I  determined 
to  be  my  honest  self  to  another.  "Your  voice  is 
exquisitely  beautiful,"  he  murmured.  I  thrilled. 
Of  what  use  to  chronicle  the  steps,  now  halting, 
now  only  too  hasty,  by  which  our  intimacy  pro- 
gressed in  that  gaunt  and  echoing  room?  He 
asked  me  no  questions  as  to  my  identity.  He 
just  said  that  he  would  like  to  play  to  me  in  private 


34  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

if  that  would  give  me  pleasure,  and  that  possibly 
I  could  spare  an  hour  and  would  go  with  him. 
.  .  .  Afterwards  his  brougham  would  be  at 
my  disposal.  His  tone  was  the  perfection  of  def- 
erential courtesy.  Once  the  secretary  came  in 
—  a  young  man  rather  like  himself  —  and  they 
talked  together  in  a  foreign  language  that  was  not 
French  nor  German;  then  the  secretary  bowed 
and  retired.  .  .  .  We  were  alone. 
There  can  be  no  sort  of  doubt  that  unless  I  was  pre- 
pared to  flout  the  wisdom  of  the  ages,  I  ought  to 
have  refused  his  suggestion.  But  is  not  the  wisdom 
of  the  ages  a  medicine  for  majorities?  And,  indeed, 
I  was  prepared  to  flout  it,  as  in  our  highest  and  our 
lowest  moments  we  often  are.  Moreover,  how 
many  women  in  my  place,  confronted  by  that 
divine  creature,  wooed  by  that  wondrous  person- 
ality, intoxicated  by  that  smile  and  that  voice, 
allured  by  the  appeal  of  those  marvellous  hands, 
would  have  found  the  strength  to  resist?  I  did 
not  resist,  I  yielded;  I  accepted.  I  was  already 
in  disgrace  with  Aunt  Constance  —  as  well  be 
drowned  in  twelve  feet  of  water  as  in  six! 

So  we  drove  rapidly  away  in  the  brougham, 
through  the  miry,  light-reflecting  streets  of  Han- 
bridge  in  the  direction  of  Knype.  And  the  rain- 
drops ran  down  the  windows  of  the  brougham, 
and  in  the  cushioned  interior  we  could  see  each 


THE  GARDEN  OF  LOVE  35 

other  darkly.  He  did  his  best  to  be  at  ease,  and 
he  almost  succeeded.  My  feeling  toward  him, 
as  regards  the  external  management,  the  social 
guidance,  of  the  affair,  was  as  though  we  were  at 
sea  in  a  dangerous  storm,  and  he  was  on  the  bridge 
and  I  was  a  mere  passenger  and  could  take  no 
responsibility.  Who  knew  through  what  difficult 
channels  we  might  not  have  to  steer,  and  from  what 
lee-shores  we  might  not  have  to  beat  away?  I 
saw  that  he  perceived  this.  When  I  offered  him 
some  awkward  compliment  about  his  good  English, 
he  seized  the  chance  of  a  narrative,  and  told  me 
about  his  parentage:  how  his  mother  was  Scotch, 
and  his  father  Danish,  and  how,  after  his  father's 
death,  his  mother  had  married  Emilio  Diaz,  a 
Spanish  teacher  of  music  in  Edinburgh,  and  how 
he  had  taken,  by  force  of  early  habit,  the  name  of 
his  stepfather.  The  whole  world  was  familiar 
with  these  facts,  and  I  was  familiar  with  them; 
but  their  recital  served  our  turn  in  the  brougham, 
and,  of  course,  Diaz  could  add  touches  which  had 
escaped  the  Staffordshire  Recorder,  and  perhaps 
all  other  papers.  He  was  explaining  to  me  that 
his  secretary  was  his  stepfather's  son  by  another 
wife,  when  we  arrived  at  the  Five  Towns  Hotel, 
opposite  Knype  Railway  Station.  I  might  have 
foreseen  that  that  would  be  our  destination.  I 
hooded  myself  as  well  as  I  could,  and  followed 


36  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

him  quickly  to  the  first  floor.  I  sank  down  into 
a  chair  nearly  breathless  in  his  sitting-room,  and 
he  took  my  cloak,  and  then  poked  the  bright  fire 
that  was  burning.  On  a  small  table  were  some 
glasses  and  a  decanter,  and  a  few  sandwiches.  I 
surmised  that  the  secretary  had  been  before  us  and 
arranged  things,  and  discreetly  departed.  My 
adventure  appeared  to  me  suddenly  and  over- 
poweringly  in  its  full  enormity.  "Oh,"  I  sighed, 
"if  I  were  a  man  like  you!"  Then  it  was  that, 
gazing  up  at  me  from  the  fire,  Diaz  had  said  that 
he  was  not  happy,  that  he  was  forlorn. 

"Yes,"  he  proceeded,  sitting  down  and  crossing 
his  legs;  "I  am  profoundly  dissatisfied.  What  is 
my  life?  Eight  or  nine  months  in  the  year  it  is 
a  homeless  life  of  hotels  and  strange  faces  and 
strange  pianos.  You  do  not  know  how  I  hate  a 
strange  piano.  That  one"  —  he  pointed  to  a  huge 
instrument  which  had  evidently  been  placed  in  the 
room  specially  for  him  —  "is  not  very  bad;  but  I 
made  its  acquaintance  only  yesterday,  and  after 
to-morrow  I  shall  never  see  it  again.  I  wander 
across  the  world,  and  everybody  I  meet  looks  at 
me  as  if  I  ought  to  be  in  a  museum,  and  bids  me 
make  acquaintance  with  a  strange  piano." 

"But  you  have  no  friends?"  I  ventured. 

"Who  can  tell?"  he  replied.  "If  I  have,  I 
scarcely  ever  see  them." 


THE  GARDEN  OF  LOVE  37 

"And  no  home?" 

"I  have  a  home  on  the  edge  of  the  forest  of 
Fontainebleau,  and  I  loathe  it." 

"Why  do  you  loathe  it?" 

"Ah!  For  what  it  has  witnessed  —  for  what  it 
has  witnessed."  He  sighed.  "Suppose  we  dis- 
cuss something  else." 

You  must  remember  my  youth,  my  inexperience, 
my  lack  of  adroitness  in  social  intercourse.  I 
talked  quietly  and  slowly,  like  my  aunt,  and  I 
know  that  I  had  a  tremendous  air  of  sagacity  and 
self-possession;  but  beneath  that  my  brain  and 
heart  were  whirling,  bewildered  in  a  delicious, 
dazzling  haze  of  novel  sensations.  It  was  not  I 
who  spoke,  but  a  new  being,  excessively  perturbed 
into  a  consciousness  of  new  powers.  I  said: 

"You  say  you  are  friendless,  but  I  wonder  how 
many  women  are  dying  for  love  of  you." 

He  started.  There  was  a  pause.  I  felt  myself 
blushing. 

"Let  me  guess  at  your  history,"  he  said.  "You 
have  lived  much  alone  with  your  thoughts,  and 
you  have  read  a  great  deal  of  the  finest  romantic 
poetry,  and  you  have  been  silent,  especially  with 
men.  You  have  seen  little  of  men." 

"But  I  understand  them,"  I  answered  boldly. 

"I  believe  you  do,"  he  admitted;  and  he  laughed. 
"So  1  needn't  explain  to  you  that  a  thousand  women 


38  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

dying  of  love  for  one  man  will  not  help  that  man  to 
happiness,  unless  he  is  dying  of  love  for  the  thousand 
and  first." 

"And  have  you  never  loved?" 

The  words  came  of  themselves  out  of  my  mouth. 

"  I  have  deceived  myself  —  in  my  quest  of  sym- 
pathy," he  said. 

"Can  you  be  sure  that,  in  your  quest  of  sym- 
pathy, you  are  not  deceiving  yourself  to-night?" 

"Yes,"  he  cried  quickly,  "I  can."  And  he  sprang 
up  and  almost  ran  to  the  piano.  "You  remember 
the  D  flat  Prelude?"  he  said,  breaking  into  the 
latter  part  of  the  air,  and  looking  at  me  the  while. 
"When  I  came  to  that  note  and  caught  your  gaze" 
—  he  struck  the  B  flat  and  held  it  —  "I  knew  that 
I  had  found  sympathy.  I  knew  it!  I  knew  it! 
I  knew  it!  Do  you  remember?" 

"Remember  what?" 

"The  way  we  looked  at  each  other." 

"Yes,"  I  breathed,  "I  remember." 

"How  can  I  thank  you?     How  can  I  thank  you?" 

He  seemed  to  be  meditating.  His  simplicity,  his 
humility,  his  kindliness  were  more  than  I  could  bear. 

"Please  do  not  speak  like  that,"  I  entreated  him, 
pained.  "You  are  the  greatest  artist  in  the  world, 
and  I  am  nobody  —  nobody  at  all.  I  do  not  know 
why  I  am  here.  I  cannot  imagine  what  you  have 
seen  in  me.  Everything  is  a  mystery.  All  I 


THE  GARDEN  OF  LOVE  39 

feel  is  that  I  am  in  your  presence,  and  that  I  am 
not  worthy  to  be.  No  matter  how  long  I  live, 
I  shall  never  experience  again  the  joy  that  I  have 
now.  But  if  you  talk  about  thanking  me,  I  must 
run  away,  because  I  cannot  stand  it  —  and  —  and 
you  haven't  played  for  me,  and  you  said  you 
would." 

He  approached  me,  and  bent  his  head  toward  mine, 
and  I  glanced  up  through  a  mist  and  saw  his  eyes 
and  the  short,  curly  auburn  locks  on  his  forehead. 

"The  most  beautiful  things,  and  the  most  vital 
things,  and  the  most  lasting  things,"  he  said  softly, 
"are  often  mysterious  and  inexplicable  and  sudden. 
And  let  me  tell  you  that  you  do  not  know  how  lovely 
you  are.  You  do  not  know  the  magic  of  your  voice, 
nor  the  grace  of  your  gestures.  But  time  and  man 
will  teach  you.  What  shall  I  play?" 

He  was  very  close  to  me. 

"Bach,"  I  ejaculated,  pointing  impatiently  to 
the  piano. 

I  fancied  that  Bach  would  spread  peace  abroad 
in  my  soul. 

He  resumed  his  place  at  the  piano,  and  touched 
the  keys. 

"Another  thing  that  makes  me  more  sure  that 
I  am  not  deceiving  myself  to-night,"  he  said,  taking 
his  fingers  off  the  keys,  but  staring  at  the  keyboard, 
"is  that  you  have  not  regretted  coming  here.  You 


40  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

have  not  called  yourself  a  wicked  woman.  You 
have  not  even  accused  me  of  taking  advantage  of 
your  innocence." 

And  ere  I  could  say  a  word  he  had  begun  the 
Chromatic  Fantasia,  smiling  faintly. 

And  I  had  hoped  for  peace  from  Bach!  I  had 
often  felt  that  deep  passion  was  concealed  almost 
everywhere  within  the  restraint  and  the  apparent 
calm  of  Bach's  music,  but  the  full  force  of  it  had  not 
been  shown  to  me  till  this  glorious  night.  Diaz's  play- 
ing was  tenfold  more  impressive,  more  effective,  more 
revealing  in  the  hotel  parlour  than  in  the  great  hall. 
The  Chromatic  Fantasia  seemed  as  full  of  the  mag- 
nificence of  life  as  that  other  Fantasia  which  he 
had  given  an  hour  or  so  earlier.  Instead  of  peace 
I  had  the  whirlwind;  instead  of  tranquillity  a  riot; 
instead  of  the  poppy  an  alarming  potion.  The 
rendering  was  masterly  to  the  extreme  of  master- 
liness. 

When  he  had  finished  I  rose  and  passed  to  the 
fireplace  in  silence;  he  did  not  stir. 

"Do  you  always  play  like  that?"  I  asked  at 
length. 

"No,"  he  said;  "only  when  you  are  there.  I 
have  never  played  the  Chopin  Fantasia  as  I  played 
it  to-night.  The  Chopin  was  all  right;  but  do 
not  be  under  any  illusion;  what  you  have  just 
heard  is  Bach  played  by  a  Chopin  player." 


THE  GARDEN  OF  LOVE  41 

Then  he  left  the  piano  and  went  to  the  small 
table  where  the  glasses  were. 

"You  must  be  in  need  of  refreshment,"  he  whis- 
pered gaily.  "Nothing  is  more  exhausting  than 
listening  to  the  finest  music." 

"It  is  you  who  ought  to  be  tired,"  I  replied; 
"  after  that  long  concert,  to  be  playing  now." 

"I  have  the  physique  of  a  camel,"  he  said. 
"  I  am  never  tired  so  long  as  I  am  sure  of  my  listeners. 
I  would  play  for  you  till  breakfast  to-morrow." 

The  decanter  contained  a  fluid  of  a  pleasant 
green  tint.  He  poured  very  carefully  this  fluid 
to  the  depth  of  half  an  inch  in  one  glass  and  three- 
quarters  of  an  inch  in  another  glass.  Then  he 
filled  both  glasses  to  the  brim  with  water,  accom- 
plishing the  feat  with  infinite  pains  and  enjoyment, 
as  though  it  had  been  part  of  a  ritual. 

"There!"  he  said,  offering  me  in  his  steady  hand 
the  glass  which  had  received  the  smaller  quantity 
of  the  green  fluid.  "Taste." 

"But  what  is  it?"  I  demanded. 

"Taste,"  he  repeated,  and  he  himself  tasted. 

I  obeyed.  At  the  first  mouthful  I  thought 
the  liquid  was  somewhat  sinister  and  disagreeable, 
but  immediately  afterwards  I  changed  my  opinion, 
and  found  it  ingratiating,  enticing,  and  stimulating, 
and  yet  not  strong. 

"Do  you  like  it?  "he  asked. 


42  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

I  nodded,  and  drank  again. 

"It  is  wonderful,"  I  answered.  "What  do  you 
call  it?" 

"Men  call  it  absinthe,"  he  said. 

"But- 

I  put  the  glass  on  the  mantelpiece  and  picked 
it  up  again. 

"Don't  be  frightened,"  he  soothed  me.  "I 
know  what  you  are  going  to  say.  You  have 
always  heard  that  absinthe  is  the  deadliest  of  all 
poisons,  that  it  is  the  curse  of  Paris,  and  that  it 
makes  the  most  terrible  of  all  drunkards.  So 
it  is;  so  it  does.  But  not  as  we  are  drinking  it; 
not  as  I  invariably  drink  it." 

"Of  course,"  I  said,  proudly  confident  in  him. 
"  You  would  not  have  offered  it  to  me  otherwise." 

"Of  course  I  should  not,"  he  agreed.  "I  give 
you  my  word  that  a  few  drops  of  absinthe  in  a 
tumbler  of  water  make  the  most  effective  and  the 
least  harmful  stimulant  in  the  world." 

"I  am  sure  of  it,"  I  said. 

"But  drink  slowly,"  he  advised  me. 

I  refused  the  sandwiches.  I  had  no  need  of 
them.  I  felt  sufficient  unto  myself.  I  no  longer 
had  any  apprehension.  My  body,  my  brain,  and 
my  soul  seemed  to  be  at  the  highest  pitch  of  effi- 
ciency. The  fear  of  being  maladroit  departed 
from  me.  Ideas  —  delicate  and  subtle  ideas  — 


THE  GARDEN  OF  LOVE  43 

welled  up  in  me  one  after  another;  I  was  bound 
to  give  utterance  to  them.  I  began  to  talk  about 
my  idol  Chopin,  and  I  explained  to  Diaz  my  esoteric 
interpretation  of  the  Fantasia.  He  was  sitting  down 
now,  but  I  still  stood  by  the  fire. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "that  is  very  interesting." 

"What  does  the  Fantasia  mean  to  you?"  I 
asked  him. 

"Nothing,"  he  said. 

"Nothing!" 

"Nothing,  in  the  sense  you  wish  to  convey. 
Everything,  in  another  sense.  You  can  attach 
any  ideas  you  please  to  music,  but  music,  if  you 
will  forgive  me  saying  so,  rejects  them  all  equally. 
Art  has  to  do  with  emotions,  not  with  ideas,  and 
the  great  defect  of  literature  is  that  it  can  only 
express  emotions  by  means  of  ideas.  What  makes 
music  the  greatest  of  all  the  arts  is  that  it  can  express 
emotions  without  ideas.  Literature  can  appeal  to 
the  soul  only  through  the  mind.  Music  goes  direct. 
Its  language  is  a  language  which  the  soul  alone 
understands,  but  which  the  soul  can  never  translate. 
Therefore  all  I  can  say  of  the  Fantasia  is  that  it 
moves  me  profoundly.  I  know  how  it  moves  me, 
but  I  cannot  tell  you;  I  cannot  even  tell  myself." 

Vistas  of  comprehension  opened  out  before  me. 

"Oh,  do  go  on,"  I  entreated  him.  "Tell  me 
more  about  music.  Do  you  not  think  Chopin 


44  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

the  greatest  composer  that  ever  lived?  You  must, 
since  you  always  play  him." 

He  smiled. 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  do  not.  For  me  there  is  no 
supremacy  in  art.  When  fifty  artists  have  contrived 
to  be  supreme,  supremacy  becomes  impossible. 
Take  a  little  song  by  Greig.  It  is  perfect,  it  is 
supreme.  No  one  could  be  greater  than  Greig 
was  great  when  he  wrote  that  song.  The  whole 
last  act  of  The  Twilight  of  the  Gods  is  not  greater 
than  a  little  song  of  Greig's." 

"I  see,"  I  murmured  humbly.  "  The  Twilight 
of  the  Gods  —  that  is  Wagner,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes.     Don't  you  know  your  Wagner?" 

"No.     I " 

"You  don't  know  Tristan?" 

He  jumped  up,  excited. 

"How  could  I  know  it?"  I  expostulated.  "I  have 
never  seen  any  opera.  I  know  the  marches  from 
Tannhduser  and  Lohengrin,  and  *O  Star  of  Eve!" 

"But  it  is  impossible  that  you  don't  know  Tris- 
tan!" he  exclaimed.  "The  second  act  of  Tristan 
is  the  greatest  piece  of  love-music  —  No,  it 
isn't."  He  laughed.  "I  must  not  contradict  my- 
self. But  it  is  marvellous  —  marvellous!  You 
know  the  story?" 

"Yes,"  I  said.     "Play  me  some  of  it." 

"I  will  play  the  Prelude,"  he  answered. 


THE  GARDEN  OF  LOVE  45 

I  gulped  down  the  remaining  drops  in  my  glass 
and  crossed  the  room  to  a  chair  where  I  could  see 
his  face.  And  he  played  the  Prelude  to  the  most 
passionately  voluptuous  opera  ever  written.  It 
was  my  first  real  introduction  to  Wagner,  my 
first  glimpse  of  that  enchanted  field.  I  was  ravished, 
rapt  away. 

"Wagner  was  a  great  artist  in  spite  of  himself," 
said  Diaz,  when  he  had  finished.  "He  assigned 
definite  and  precise  ideas  to  all  those  melodies. 
Nothing  could  be  more  futile.  I  shall  not  label 
them  for  you.  But  perhaps  you  can  guess  the 
love-motive  for  yourself." 

"Yes,  I  can,"  I  said  positively.     "It  is  this." 

I  tried  to  hum  the  theme,  but  my  voice  refused 
obedience.  So  I  came  to  the  piano,  and  played 
the  theme  high  up  in  the  treble,  while  Diaz  was 
still  sitting  on  the  piano-stool.  I  trembled  even 
to  touch  the  piano  in  his  presence;  but  I  did  it. 

"You  have  guessed  right,"  he  said;  and  then  he 
asked  me  in  a  casual  tone:  "Do  you  ever  play 
pianoforte  duets?" 

"Often,"  I  replied  unsuspectingly,  "with  my 
aunt.  We  play  the  symphonies  of  Beethoven, 
Mozart,  Schubert,  Hadyn,  and  overtures,  and 
so  on." 

"Awfully  good  fun,  isn't  it?"  he  smiled. 

"Splendid!"  I  said. 


46  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

"I've  got  Tristan  here  arranged  for  pianoforte 
duet,"  he  said.  "Tony,  my  secretary,  enjoys  play- 
ing it.  You  shall  play  part  of  the  second  act 
with  me." 

"Me!     With  you!" 

"Certainly." 

"Impossible!  I  should  never  dare!  How  do 
you  know  I  can  play  at  all?" 

"You  have  just  proved  it  to  me,"  said  he.  "  Come; 
you  will  not  refuse  me  this!" 

I  wanted  to  leave  the  vicinity  of  the  piano.  I 
felt  that,  once  out  of  the  immediate  circle  of  his 
tremendous  physical  influence,  I  might  manage  to 
escape  the  ordeal  which  he  had  suggested.  But 
I  could  not  go  away.  The  silken  nets  of  his  per- 
sonality had  been  cast,  and  I  was  enmeshed.  And 
if  I  was  happy,  it  was  with  a  dreadful  happiness. 

"But,  really,  I  can't  play  with  you,"  I  said 
weakly. 

His  response  was  merely  to  look  up  at  me  over 
his  shoulder.  His  beautiful  face  was  so  close  to 
mine,  and  it  expressed  such  a  nai've  and  strong 
yearning  for  my  active  and  intimate  sympathy, 
and  such  divine  frankness,  and  such  perfect  kind- 
liness, that  I  had  no  more  will  to  resist.  I  knew 
I  should  suffer  horribly  in  spoiling  by  my  coarse 
amateurishness  the  miraculous  finesse  of  his  per- 
formance, but  I  resigned  myself  to  suffering.  I 


THE  GARDEN  OF  LOVE  47 

felt  toward  him  as  I  had  felt  during  the  concert: 
that  he  must  have  his  way  at  no  matter  what 
cost,  that  he  had  already  earned  the  infinite  grati- 
tude of  the  entire  world  —  in  short,  I  raised  him 
in  my  soul  to  a  god's  throne;  and  I  accepted  humbly 
the  great,  the  incredible  honour  he  did  me.  And 
I  was  right  —  a  thousand  times  right. 

And  in  the  same  moment  he  was  like  a  charming 
child  to  me :  such  is  always  in  some  wise  the  relation 
between  the  creature  born  to  enjoy  and  the  creature 
born  to  suffer. 

"I'll  try,"  I  said;  "but  it  will  be  appalling." 

I  laughed  and  shook  my  head. 

"We  shall  see  how  appalling  it  will  be,"  he 
murmured,  as  he  got  the  volume  of  music. 

He  fetched  a  chair  for  me,  and  we  sat  down 
side  by  side,  he  on  the  stool  and  I  on  the  chair. 

"I'm  afraid  my  chair  is  too  low,"  I  said. 

"And  I'm  sure  this  stool  is  too  high,"  he  said. 
"  Suppose  we  exchange." 

So  we  both  rose  to  change  the  positions  of  the 
chair  and  the  stool,  and  our  garments  touched, 
and  almost  our  faces,  and  at  that  very  moment 
there  was  a  loud  rap  at  the  door. 

I  darted  away  from  him. 

"  What's  that? "  I  cried,  low,  in  a  fit  of  terror. 

"Who's  there?"  he  called  quietly;  but  he  did 
not  stir. 


48  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

We  gazed  at  each  other. 

The  knock  was  repeated,  sharply  and  firmly. 

"Who's  there?"  Diaz  demanded  again. 

"Go  to  the  door,"  I  whispered. 

He  hesitated,  and  then  we  heard  footsteps  re- 
ceding down  the  corridor.  Diaz  went  slowly  to 
the  door,  opened  it  wide,  slipped  out  into  the 
corridor,  and  looked  into  the  darkness. 

"Curious!"  he  commented  tranquilly.  "I  see 
no  one." 

He  came  back  into  the  room  and  shut  the  door 
softly,  and  seemed  thereby  to  shut  us  in,  to  enclose 
us  against  the  world  in  a  sweet  domesticity  of  our 
own.  The  fire  was  burning  brightly,  the  glasses 
and  the  decanter  on  the  small  table  spoke  of  cheer, 
the  curtains  were  drawn,  and  through  a  half-open 
door  behind  the  piano  one  had  a  hint  of  a  mysterious 
other  room;  one  could  see  nothing  within  it  save 
a  large  brass  knob  or  ball,  which  caught  the  light 
of  the  candle,  on  the  piano. 

"You  were  startled,"  he  said.  "You  must  have 
a  little  more  of  our  cordial  —  just  a  spoonful." 

He  poured  out  for  me  an  infinitesimal  quantity, 
and  the  same  for  himself. 

I  sighed  with  relief  as  I  drank.  My  terror  left 
me.  But  the  trifling  incident  had  given  me  the 
clearest  perception  of  what  I  was  doing,  and  that 
did  not  leave  me. 


THE  GARDEN  OF  LOVE  49 

We  sat  down  a  second  time  to  the  piano. 

"You  understand,"  he  explained,  staring  absently 
at  the  double  page  of  music,  "this  is  the  garden 
scene.  When  the  curtain  goes  up  it  is  dark  in  the 
garden,  and  Isolda  is  there  with  her  maid  Brangaena. 
The  king,  her  husband,  has  just  gone  off  hunting  — 
you  will  hear  the  horns  dying  in  the  distance  — 
and  Isolda  is  expecting  her  lover,  Tristan.  A 
torch  is  burning  in  the  wall  of  the  castle,  and  as 
soon  as  she  gives  him  the  signal  by  extinguishing 
it  he  comes  to  her.  You  will  know  the  exact  moment 
when  they  meet.  Then  there  is  the  love-scene. 
Oh !  when  we  arrive  at  that  you  will  be  astounded. 
You  will  hear  the  very  heart-beats  of  the  lovers. 
Are  you  ready?" 

"Yes." 

We  began  to  play.  But  it  was  ridiculous.  I 
knew  it  would  be  ridiculous.  I  was  too  dazed, 
and  artistically  too  intimidated,  to  read  the  notes. 
The  notes  danced  and  pranced  before  me.  All  I 
could  see  on  my  page  was  the  big  black  letters  at 
the  top,  "Zweiter  Aufzug."  And  furthermore, 
on  that  first  page  both  the  theme  and  the  accompani- 
ment were  in  the  bass  of  the  piano.  Diaz  had 
scarcely  anything  to  do.  I  threw  up  my  hands 
and  closed  my  eyes. 

"I  can't,"  I  whispered,  "I  can't.  I  would  if  I 
could." 


SO  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

He  gently  took  my  hand. 

"My  dear  companion,"  he  said,  "tell  me  your 
name." 

I  was  surprised.  Memories  of  the  Bible,  for 
some  inexplicable  reason,  flashed  through  my  mind. 

"Magdalen,"  I  replied,  and  my  voice  was  so 
deceptively  quiet  and  sincere  that  he  believed  it. 

I  could  see  that  he  was  taken  aback. 

"It  is  a  holy  name  and  a  good  name,"  he  said, 
after  a  pause.  "Magda,  you  are  perfectly  capable 
of  reading  this  music  with  me,  and  you  will  read 
it,  won't  you?  Let  us  begin  afresh.  Leave  the 
accompaniment  with  me,  and  play  the  theme  only. 
Further  on  it  gets  easier." 

And  in  another  moment  we  were  launched  on 
that  sea  so  strange  to  me.  The  influence  of  Diaz 
over  me  was  complete.  Inspired  by  his  will,  I 
had  resolved  intensely  to  read  the  music  correctly 
and  sympathetically,  and  lo!  I  was  succeeding! 
He  turned  the  leaf  with  the  incredible  dexterous 
rapidity  of  which  only  great  pianists  seem  to  have 
the  secret,  and  in  conjunction  with  my  air  in  the 
bass  he  was  suddenly,  magically,  drawing  out  from 
the  upper  notes  the  sweetest  and  most  intoxicating 
melody -I  had  ever  heard.  The  exceeding  beauty 
of  the  thing  laid  hold  on  me,  and  I  abandoned 
myself  to  it.  I  felt  sure  now  that,  at  any  rate,  I 
should  not  disgrace  myself. 


THE  GARDEN  OF  LOVE  51 

"Unless  it  was  Chopin,"  whispered  Diaz.  "No 
one  could  ever  see  two  things  at  once  as  well  as 
Wagner." 

We  surged  on  through  the  second  page.  Again 
the  lightning  turn  of  the  leaf,  and  then  the  hunters* 
horns  were  heard  departing  from  the  garden  of 
love,  receding,  receding,  until  they  subsided  into 
a  scarce-heard  drone,  out  of  which  rose  another 
air.  And  as  the  sound  of  the  horns  died  away, 
so  died  away  all  my  past  and  all  my  solicitudes 
for  the  future.  I  surrendered  utterly  and  pas- 
sionately to  the  spell  of  the  beauty  which  we  were 
opening  like  a  long  scroll.  I  had  ceased  to 
suffer. 

The  absinthe  and  Diaz  had  conjured  a  spirit 
in  me  which  was  at  once  feverish  and  calm.  I 
was  reading  at  sight  difficult  music  full  of  modula- 
tions and  of  colour,  and  I  was  reading  it  with 
calm  assurance  of  heart  and  brain.  Deeper  down 
the  fever  raged,  but  so  separately  that  I  might 
have  had  two  individualities.  Enchanted  as  I 
was  by  the  rich  and  complex  concourse  of  melodies 
which  ascended  from  the  piano  and  swam  about 
our  heads,  this  fluctuating  tempest  of  sound  was 
after  all  only  a  background  for  the  emotions  .to 
which  it  gave  birth  in  me.  Naturally  they  were 
the  emotions  of  love  —  the  sense  of  the  splendour 
of  love,  the  headlong  passion  of  love,  the  trans- 


52  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

cendant  carelessness  of  love,  the  finality  of  love. 
I  saw  in  love  the  sole  and  sacred  purpose  of  the 
universe,  and  my  heart  whispered,  with  a  new 
import:  "Where  love  is,  there  is  God  also." 

The  fever  of  the  music  increased,  and  with  it 
my  fever.  We  seemed  to  be  approaching  some 
mighty  climax.  I  thought  I  might  faint  with 
ecstasy,  but  I  held  on,  and  the  climax  arrived  —  a 
climax  which  touched  the  limits  of  expression  in 
expressing  all  that  two  souls  could  feel  in  coming 
together. 

"Tristan  has  come  into  the  garden,"  I  muttered. 

And  Diaz,  turning  his  face  toward  me, 
nodded. 

We  plunged  forward  into  the  love-scene  itself 
—  the  scene  in  which  the  miracle  of  love  is  solem- 
nized and  celebrated.  I  thought  that  of  all  miracles, 
the  miracle  which  had  occurred  that  night,  and  was 
even  then  occurring,  might  be  counted  among  the 
most  wondrous.  What  occult  forces,  what  secret 
influences  of  soul  on  soul,  what  courage  on  his 
part,  what  sublime  immodesty  and  unworldliness 
on  mine  had  brought  it  about!  In  what  dreadful 
disaster  would  it  not  end!  ...  I  cared  not 
in  that  marvellous  hectic  hour  how  it  would  end. 
I  knew  I  had  been  blessed  beyond  the  common 
lot  of  women.  I  knew  that  I  was  living  more 
intensely  and  more  fully  than  I  could  have  hoped 


THE  GARDEN  OF  LOVE  53 

to  live.  I  knew  that  my  experience  was  a  supreme 
experience,  and  that  another  such  could  not  be 
contained  in  my  life.  .  .  .  And  Diaz  was 
so  close,  so  at  one  with  me.  ...  A  hush  de- 
scended on  the  music,  and  I  found  myself  playing 
strange  disturbing  chords  with  the  left  hand,  ir- 
regularly repeated,  opposing  the  normal  accent 
of  the  bar,  and  becoming  stranger  and  more  dis- 
turbing. And  Diaz  was  playing  an  air  fragmentary 
and  poignant.  The  lovers  were  waiting;  the  very 
atmosphere  of  the  garden  was  drenched  with  an 
agonizing  and  exquisite  anticipation.  The  whole 
world  stood  still,  expectant,  while  the  troubling 
chords  fought  gently  and  persistently  against  the 
rhythm. 

"Hear  the  beating  of  their  hearts,"  Diaz's  whisper 
floated  over  the  chords. 

It  was  too  much.  The  obsession  of  his  presence, 
reinforced  by  the  vibrating  of  his  wistful,  sensuous 
voice,  overcame  me  suddenly.  My  hands  fell 
from  the  keyboard.  He  looked  at  me  —  and  with 
what  a  glance! 

"I  can  bear  no  more,"  I  cried  wildly.  "It  is 
too  beautiful,  too  beautiful!" 

And  I  rushed  from  the  piano,  and  sat  down  in 
an  easy-chair,  and  hid  my  face  in  my  hands. 

He  came  to  me,  and  bent  over  me. 

"Magda,"  he  whispered,  "show  me  your  face.'* 


54  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

With  his  hands  he  delicately  persuaded  my  hands 
away  from  my  face,  and  forced  me  to  look  on  him. 
"How  dark  and  splendid  you  are,  Magda!"  he 
said,  still  holding  my  hands.  "How  humid  and 
flashing  your  eyesl  And  those  eyelashes,  and  that 
hair  —  dark,  dark!  And  that  bosom,  with  its 
rise  and  fall!  And  that  low,  rich  voice,  that  is 
like  dark  wine!  And  that  dress  —  dark,  and  full 
of  mysterious  shadows,  like  our  souls!  Magda, 
we  must  have  known  each  other  in  a  previous  life. 
There  can  be  no  other  explanation.  And  this 
moment  is  the  fulfilment  of  that  other  life,  which 
was  not  aroused.  You  were  to  be  mine.  You  are 
mine,  Magda!" 

There  is  a  fatalism  in  love.  I  felt  it  then.  I 
had  been  called  by  destiny  to  give  happiness, 
perhaps  for  a  lifetime,  but  perhaps  only  for  a 
brief  instant,  to  this  noble  and  glorious  creature, 
on  whom  the  gods  had  showered  all  gifts.  Could 
I  shrink  back  from  my  fate?  And  had  he  not 
already  given  me  far  more  than  I  could  ever  re- 
turn? The  conventions  of  society  seemed  then 
like  sand,  foolishly  raised  to  imprison  the  resistless 
tide  of  ocean.  Nature,  after  all,  is  eternal  and 
unchangeable,  and  everywhere  the  same.  The 
great  and  solemn  fact  for  me  was  that  we  were 
together,  and  he  held  me  while  our  burning 
pulses  throbbed  in  contact.  He  held  me;  he 


THE  GARDEN  OF  LOVE  55 

clasped  me,  and,  despite  my  innocence,  I  knew 
at  once  that  those  hands  were  as  expert  to  caress 
as  to  make  music.  I  was  proud  and  glad  that  he 
was  not  clumsy,  that  he  was  a  master.  And  at 
that  point  I  ceased  to  have  volition.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  PRICE 

WHEN  I  woke  up,  perplexed  at  first,  but 
gradually  remembering  where  I  was,  and 
what  had  occurred  to  me,  the  realistic 
and  uncompromising  light  of  dawn  had  commenced 
its  pitiless  inquiry,  and  it  fell  on  the  brass  knob, 
which  I  had  noticed  a  few  hours  before,  from  the 
other  room,  and  on  another  brass  knob  a  few  feet 
away.  My  eyes  smarted;  I  had  disconcerting 
sensations  at  the  back  of  my  head;  my  hair  was 
brittle,  and  as  though  charged  with  a  dull  electricity; 
I  was  conscious  of  actual  pain,  and  an  incubus, 
crushing  but  intangible,  lay  heavily,  like  a  physical 
weight,  on  my  heart.  After  the  crest  of  the  wave 
the  trough  —  it  must  be  so;  but  how  profound  the 
instinct  which  complains!  I  listened.  I  could 
hear  his  faint,  regular  breathing.  I  raised  myself 
carefully  on  one  elbow  and  looked  at  him.  He  was 
as  beautiful  in  sleep  as  in  consciousness;  his  lips 
were  slightly  parted,  his  cheek  exquisitely  flushed, 
and  nothing  could  disarrange  that  short,  curly  hair. 
He  slept,  with  the  calmness  of  the  natural  innocent 
56 


THE  PRICE  57 

man,  to  whom  the  assuaging  of  desires  brings  only 
content. 

I  felt  that  I  must  go,  and  hastily,  frantically. 
I  could  not  face  him  when  he  woke;  I  should  not 
have  known  what  to  say;  I  should  have  been 
abashed,  timid,  clumsy,  unequal  to  myself.  And, 
moreover,  I  had  the  egoist's  deep  need  to  be  alone, 
to  examine  my  soul,  to  understand  it  intimately 
and  utterly.  And,  lastly,  I  wanted  to  pay  the  bill 
of  pleasure  at  once.  I  could  never  tolerate  credit; 
I  was  like  my  aunt  in  that.  Therefore,  I  must 
go  home  and  settle  the  account  in  some  way.  I 
knew  not  how;  I  knew  only  that  the  thing  must  be 
done.  Diaz  had  nothing  to  do  with  that;  it  was  not 
his  affair,  and  I  should  have  resented  his  interference. 
Ah!  when  I  was  in  the  bill-paying  mood,  how  hard 
I  could  be,  how  stony,  how  blind!  And  that 
morning  I  was  like  a  Malay  running  amok. 

Think  not  that  when  I  was  ready  to  depart 
I  stopped  and  stooped  to  give  him  a  final  tender 
kiss.  I  did  not  even  scribble  a  word  of  adieu  or 
of  explanation.  I  stole  away  on  tiptoe,  without 
looking  at  him.  This  sounds  brutal,  but  it  is  a 
truth  of  my  life,  and  I  am  writing  my  life  —  at 
least  I  am  writing  those  brief  hours  of  my  existence 
during  which  I  lived.  I  had  always  a  sort  of  fierce 
courage;  and  as  I  had  proved  the  courage  of  my 
passion  in  the  night,  so  I  proved  the  courage  of  my 


58  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

—  not  my  remorse,  not  my  compunction,  not  my 
regret  —  but  of  my  intellectual  honesty  in  the 
morning.  Proud  and  vain  words,  perhaps!  Who 
can  tell?  No  matter  what  sympathies  I  alienate, 
I  am  bound  to  say  plainly  that,  though  I  am  pas- 
sionate, I  am  not  sentimental.  I  came  to  him  out 
of  void,  and  I  went  from  him  into  the  void.  He 
found  me,  and  he  lost  me.  Between  the  autumn 
sunset  and  the  autumn  sunrise  he  had  learnt  to  know 
me  well,  but  he  did  not  know  my  name  nor  my 
history;  he  had  no  clue,  no  cord  to  pull  me 
back. 

I  passed  into  the  sitting-room,  dimly  lighted 
through  the  drawn  curtains,  and  there  was  the  score 
of  Tristan  open  on  the  piano.  Yes;  and  if  I  were 
the  ordinary  woman  I  would  add  that  there  also 
were  the  ashes  in  the  cold  grate,  and  so  symbolize 
the  bitterness  of  memory  and  bring  about  a  pang. 
But  I  have  never  regretted  what  is  past.  The 
cinders  of  that  fire  were  to  me  cinders  of  a  fire  and 
nothing  more. 

In  the  doorway  I  halted.  To  go  into  the  corridor 
was  to  brave  the  blast  of  the  world,  and  I  hesitated. 
Possibly  I  hesitated  for  a  very  little  thing.  Only 
the  women  among  you  will  guess  it.  My  dress 
was  dark  and  severe.  I  had  a  simple,  dark  cloak. 
But  I  had  no  hat.  I  had  no  hat,  and  the  most 
important  fact  in  the  universe  for  me  then  was  that 


THE  PRICE  59 

I  had  no  hat.  My  whole  life  was  changed;  my 
heart  and  mind  were  in  the  throes  of  a  revolution; 
I  dared  not  imagine  what  would  happen  between 
my  aunt  and  me;  but  this  deficiency  in  my  attire 
distressed  me  more  than  all  else.  At  the  other 
end  of  the  obscure  corridor  was  a  chambermaid 
kneeling  down  and  washing  the  linoleum.  Ah, 
maid!  Would  I  not  have  exchanged  fates  with 
you,  then!  I  walked  boldly  up  to  her.  She  seemed 
to  be  surprised,  but  she  continued  to  wring  out  a 
cloth  in  her  pail  as  she  looked  at  me. 

"What  time  is  it,  please?"  I  asked  her. 

"Better  than  half-past  six,  ma'am,"  said  she. 

She  was  young  and  emaciated. 

"Have  you  got  a  hat  you  can  lend  me?  Or 
I'll  buy  it  from  you." 

"A  hat,  ma'am?" 

"Yes,  a  hat,"  I  repeated  impatiently.  And  I 
flushed.  "I  must  go  out  at  once,  and  I've  —  I've 
no  hat.  And  I  can't " 

It  is  extraordinary  how  in  a  crisis  one's  organism 
surprises  one.  I  had  thought  I  was  calm,  that  I 
held  myself  in  full  control;  but  I  had  almost  no 
command  over  my  voice. 

"I've  got  a  boat-shaped  straw,  ma'am,  if  that's 
any  use  to  you,"  said  the  girl  kindly. 

What  she  surmised  or  what  she  knew  I  could 
not  say.  But  I  have  found  out  since,  in  my  travels, 


60  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

that  hotel  chambermaids  lose  their  illusions  early. 
At  any  rate  her  tone  was  kindly. 

"Get  it  me,  there's  a  good  girl,"  I  entreated  her. 

And  when  she  brought  it,  I  drew  out  the  imitation 
pearlpins  and  put  them  between  my  teeth,  and 
jammed  the  hat  on  my  head  and  skewered  it 
savagely  with  the  pins. 

"Is  that  right?" 

"It  suits  you  better  than  it  does  me,  ma'am, 
I  do  declare,"  she  said.  "Oh,  ma'am,  this  is  too 
much  —  I  really  couldn't!" 

I  had  given  her  five  shillings. 

"Nonsense!  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you," 
I  whispered  hurriedly,  and  ran  off. 

She  was  a  good  girl !  I  hope  she  has  never  suffered. 
And  yet  I  would  not  like  to  think  she  had  died  of 
consumption  before  she  knew  what  life  meant. 

I  hastened  from  the  hotel.  A  man  in  a  blue 
waistcoat  with  shining  black  sleeves  was  moving 
a  large  cocoa-nut  mat  in  the  hall,  and  the  pattern 
of  the  mat  was  shown  in  dust  on  the  tiles  where 
the  mat  had  been.  He  glanced  at  me  absently 
as  I  flitted  past;  I  encountered  no  other  person. 
The  square  between  the  hotel  and  the  station  was 
bathed  in  pure  sunshine  —  such  sunshine  as  reaches 
the  Five  Towns  only  after  a  rain  storm  has  washed 
the  soot  out  of  the  air.  I  felt,  for  a  moment, 
obscene  \r>  that  sunshine;  but  I  had  another  and 


THE  PRICE  61 

a  stronger  feeling.  Although  there  was  not  a 
soul  in  the  square,  I  felt  as  if  I  was  regarding  the 
world  and  mankind  with  different  eyes  from  those 
of  yesterday.  Then  I  knew  nothing;  to-day  I 
knew  everything  —  so  it  seemed  to  me.  It  seemed 
to  me  that  I  understood  all  sorts  of  vague,  subtle 
things  that  I  had  not  understood  before;  that 
I  had  been  blind  and  now  saw;  that  I  had  become 
kinder,  more  sympathetic,  more  human.  What 
these  things  were  that  I  understood,  or  thought  I 
understood,  I  could  not  have  explained.  All  I 
felt  was  that  a  radical  change  of  attitude  had 
occurred  in  me.  "Poor  world!  Poor  humanity! 
My  heart  melts  for  you!"  Thus  spoke  my  soul, 
pouring  itself  out.  The  very  stone  facings  of  the 
station  and  the  hotel  seemed  somehow  to  be  human- 
ized and  to  need  my  compassion. 

I  walked  with  eyes  downcast  into  the  station. 
I  had  determined  to  take  the  train  from  Knype  to 
Shawport,  a  distance  of  three  miles,  and  then  to 
walk  up  the  hill  from  Shawport  through  Oldcastle 
Street  to  Bursley.  I  hoped  that  by  such  a  route 
at  such  an  hour,  I  should  be  unlikely  to  meet 
acquaintances,  of  whom,  in  any  case,  I  had  few. 
My  hopes  appeared  to  be  well  founded,  for  the 
large  booking-hall  at  the  station  was  thronged 
with  a  multitude  entirely  strange  to  me  —  work- 
men and  workwomen  and  workgirls  crowded  the 


62  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

place.  The  first-class  and  second-class  booking- 
windows  were  shut,  and  a  long  tail  of  muscular 
men,  pale  men,  stout  women,  and  thin  women 
pushed  to  take  tickets  at  the  other  window.  I 
was  obliged  to  join  them,  and  to  wait  my  turn 
amid  the  odour  of  corduroy  and  shawl,  and  the 
strong  odour  of  humanity;  my  nostrils  were  pecu- 
liarly sensitive  that  morning.  Some  of  the  men 
had  herculean  arms  and  necks,  and  it  was  these 
who  wore  pieces  of  string  tied  round  their  trousers 
below  the  knee,  disclosing  the  lines  of  their  formid- 
able calves.  The  women  were  mostly  pallid  and 
quiet.  All  carried  cans,  or  satchels,  or  baskets; 
here  and  there  a  man  swung  lightly  on  his  shoulder 
a  huge  bag  of  tools,  which  I  could  scarcely  have 
raised  from  the  ground.  Everybody  was  natural, 
direct,  and  eager;  and  no  one  attempted  to  be  genteel 
or  refined;  no  one  pretended  that  he  did  not  toil 
with  his  hands  for  dear  life.  I  anticipated  that  I 
should  excite  curiosity,  but  I  did  not.  The  people 
had  a  preoccupied,  hurried  air.  Only  at  the  win- 
dow itself,  when  the  ticket-clerk,  having  made  me 
repeat  my  demand,  went  to  a  distant  part  of  his  lair 
to  get  my  ticket,  did  I  detect  behind  me  a  wave  of 
impatient  and  inimical  interest  in  this  drone  who 
caused  delay  to  busy  people. 

It  was  the  same  on  the  up-platform,  the  same  in 
the  subway,  and  the  same  on  the  down-platform. 


THE  PRICE  63 

I  was  plunged  in  a  sea  of  real,  raw  life;  but  I  could 
not  mingle  with  it;  I  was  a  bit  of  manufactured 
lace  on  that  full  tide  of  nature.  The  porters  cried 
in  a  different  tone  from  what  they  employed  when 
the  London  and  Manchester  expresses,  and  the 
polite  trains  generally,  were  alongside.  They  cried 
fraternally,  rudely;  they  were  at  one  "with  passen- 
gers. I  alone  was  a  stranger. 

"These  are  the  folk!  These  are  the  basis  of 
society,  and  the  fountain  of  our  wealth  and  luxury!" 
I  thought;  for  I  was  just  beginning,  at  that  period, 
to  be  interested  in  the  disquieting  aspects  of  the 
social  organism,  and  my  ideas  were  hot  and  crude. 
I  was  aware  of  these  people  on  paper,  but  now,  for 
the  first  time,  I  realized  the  immense  rush  and 
sweep  of  their  existence,  their  nearness  to  Nature, 
their  formidable  directness.  They  frightened  me 
with  their  vivid  humanity. 

I  could  find  no  first-class  carriage  on  the  train, 
and  I  got  into  a  compartment  where  there  were  sev- 
eral girls  and  one  young  man.  The  girls  were  evident- 
ly employed  in  the  earthenware  manufacture.  Each 
had  her  dinner  basket.  Most  of  them  were  extreme- 
ly neat;  one  or  two  wore  gloves.  From  the  young 
man's  soiled  white  jacket  under  his  black  coat,  I  gath- 
ered that  he  was  an  engineer.  The  train  moved  out 
of  the  station  and  left  the  platform  nearly  empty.  I 
pictured  the  train,  a  long  procession  of  compart- 


64  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

ments  like  ours,  full  of  rough,  natural,  ungenteel  peo- 
ple. None  of  my  companions  spoke;  none  gave  me 
more  than  a  passing  glance.  It  was  uncanny. 

Still,  the  fundamental,  cardinal  quality  of  my 
adventure  remained  prominent  in  my  being,  and 
it  gave  me  countenance  among  these  taciturn, 
musing  work  girls,  who  were  always  at  grips  with 
the  realities  of  life.  "Ah-,"  I  thought,  "you  little 
know  what  I  know!  I  may  appear  a  butterfly, 
but  I  have  learnt  the  secret  meaning  of  existence. 
I  am  above  you,  beyond  you,  by  my  experience, 
and  by  my  terrible  situation,  and  by  the  turmoil 
in  my  heart!"  And  then,  quite  suddenly,  I  re- 
flected that  they  probably  knew  all  that  I  knew, 
that  some  of  them  might  have  forgotten  more 
than  I  had  ever  learnt.  I  remembered  an  absorb- 
ing correspondence  about  the  manners  of  the 
Five  Towns  in  the  columns  of  the  Staffordshire 
Recorder  —  a  correspondence  which  had  driven 
Aunt  Constance  to  conceal  the  paper  after  the 
second  week.  I  guessed  that  they  might  smile  at 
the  simplicity  of  my  heart,  could  they  see  it.  Mean- 
ing of  existence!  Why,  they  were  reared  in  it! 
The  naturalness  of  natural  people  and  of  natural 
acts  struck  me  like  a  blow,  and  I  withdrew,  whipped, 
into  myself.  My  adventure  grew  smaller.  But 
I  recalled  its  ecstasies.  I  dwelt  on  the  romantic 
perfection  of  Diaz.  It  seemed  to  me  amazing, 


THE  PRICE  65 

incredible,  that  Diaz,  the  glorious  and  incomparable 
Diaz,  had  loved  me  —  me!  —  out  of  all  the  ardent, 
worshipping  women  that  the  world  contained.  I 
wondered  if  he  had  wakened  up,  and  I  felt  sorry  for 
him.  So  far,  I  had  not  decided  how  soon,  if  at  all, 
I  should  communicate  with  him.  My  mind  was 
incapable  of  reaching  past  the  next  few  hours  — 
the  next  hour. 

We  stopped  at  a  station  surrounded  by  the  evi- 
dences of  that  tireless,  unceasing,  and  tremendous 
manufacturing  industry  which  distinguishes  the 
Five  Towns,  and  I  was  left  alone  in  the  compart- 
ment. The  train  rumbled  on  through  a  landscape 
of  fiery  furnaces,  and  burning  slag-heaps,  and  foul 
canals  reflecting  great  smoking  chimneys,  all  steeped 
in  the  mild  sunshine.  Could  the  toilworn  agents 
of  this  never-ending  and  gigantic  productiveness 
find  time  for  love?  Perhaps  they  loved  quickly 
and  forgot,  like  animals.  Thoughts  such  as  these 
lurked  sinister  and  carnal,  strange  beasts  in  the 
jungle  of  my  poor  brain.  Then  the  train  arrived 
at  Shawport,  and  I  was  obliged  to  get  out.  I  say 
"obliged,"  because  I  violently  wished  not  to  get  out. 
I  wished  to  travel  on  in  that  train  to  some  impossi- 
ble place,  where  things  were  arranged  differently. 

The  station  clock  showed  only  five  minutes  to 
seven.  I  was  astounded.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
all  the  real  world  had  been  astir  and  busy  for  hours. 


66  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

And  this  extraordinary  activity  went  on  every 
morning  while  Aunt  Constance  and  I  lay  in  our 
beds  and  thought  well  of  ourselves. 

I  shivered,  and  walked  quickly  up  the  street. 
I  had  positively  not  noticed  that  I  was  cold.  Scarce- 
ly had  I  left  the  station  when  Fred  Ryley  appeared 
in  front  of  me.  I  saw  that  his  face  was  swollen. 
My  heart  stopped.  Of  course,  he  would  tell  Ethel 
.  .  .  He  passed  me  sheepishly,  without  stopping, 
merely  raising  his  hat,  and  murmuring  the  singular 
words : 

"We're  both  very,  very  sorry." 

This  speech  astounded  me.  What  in  the  name 
of  Heaven  could  they  possibly  know,  he  and  Ethel  ? 
And  what  right  had  he  to.  .  .  ?  Did  he  smile 
furtively?  Fred  Ryley  had  sometimes  a  strange 
smile.  I  reddened,  angry  and  frightened. 

The  distance  between  the  station  and  our  house 
proved  horribly  short.  And  when  I  arrived  in 
front  of  the  green  gates,  and  put  my  hand  on  the 
latch,  I  knew  that  I  had  formed  no  plan  whatever. 
I  opened  the  right-hand  gate  and  entered  the 
garden.  The  blinds  were  still  down,  and  the 
house  looked  so  decorous  and  innocent  in  its  age. 
My  poor  aunt!  What  a  night  she  must  have 
been  through!  It  was  inconceivable  that  I  should 
tell  her  what  had  happened  to  me.  Indeed,  under 
the  windows  of  that  house  it  seemed  inconceivable 


THE  PRICE  67 

that  the  thing  had  happened  which  had  happened. 
Inconceivable!  Grotesque!  Monstrous! 

But  could  I  lie?  Could  I  rise  to  the  height  of 
some  sufficient  and  kindly  lie? 

A  hand  drew  slightly  aside  the  blind  of  the  window 
over  the  porch.  I  sighed,  and  went  wearily,  in  my 
boat-shaped  straw,  up  the  gravelled  path  to  the 
door. 

Rebecca  met  me  at  the  door.  It  was  so  early 
that  she  had  not  yet  put  on  an  apron.  She  looked 
tired,  as  if  she  had  not  slept. 

"Come  in,  miss,"  she  said  weakly,  holding  open 
the  door. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  I  did  not  need  this  invita- 
tion from  a  servant. 

"I  suppose  you've  all  been  fearfully  upset, 
wondering  where  I  was,"  I  began,  entering  the  hall. 

My  adventure  appeared  fantastically  unreal  to 
me  in  the  presence  of  this  buxom  creature,  whom 
I  knew  to  be  incapable  of  imagining  anything  one 
hundredth  part  so  dreadful. 

"No,  miss;  I  wasn't  upset  on  account  of  you. 
You're  always  so  sensible  like.  You  always  know 
what  to  do.  I  knew  as  you  must  have  stopped 
the  night  with  friends  in  Hanbridge  on  account  of 
the  heavy  rain,  and  perhaps  that  there  silly  cabman 
not  turning  up,  and  them  tramcars  all  crowded;; 
and,  of  course,  you  couldn't  telegraph." 


68  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

This  view  that  I  was  specially  sagacious  and 
equal  to  emergencies  rather  surprised  me. 

"But  auntie?"  I  demanded,  trembling. 

"Oh,  miss!"  cried  Rebecca,  glancing  timidly 
over  her  shoulder,  "I  want  you  to  come  with  me 
into  the  dining-room  before  you  go  upstairs." 

She  snuffled. 

In  the  dining-room  I  went  at  once  to  the  window 
to  draw  up  the  blinds. 

"Not  that,  not  that!"  Rebecca  appealed,  weeping. 
"For  pity's  sake!"  And  she  caught  my  hand. 

I  then  noticed  that  Lucy  was  standing  in  the 
doorway,  also  weeping.  Rebecca  noticed  this, 
too. 

"Lucy,  you  go  to  your  kitchen  this  minute," 
she  said  sharply,  and  then  turned  to  me  and  began 
to  cry  again.  "Miss  Peel  —  how  can  I  tell  you?" 

"Why  do  you  call  me  Miss  Peel?"  I  asked  her. 

But  I  knew  why.  The  thing  flashed  over  me 
instantly.  My  dear  aunt  was  dead. 

"You've  got  no  aunt,"  said  Rebecca.  "My 
poor  dear!  And  you  at  the  concert!" 

I  dropped  my  head  and  my  bosom  on  the  bare 
mahogany  table  and  cried.  Never  before,  and 
never  since,  have  I  spilt  such  tears  —  hot,  painful 
drops,  distilled  plenteously  from  a  heart  too  crushed 
and  torn. 

"There,  there!"  muttered  Rebecca.     "I  wish  I 


THE  PRICE  69 

could  have  told  you  different  —  less  cruel;  but  it 
wasn't  in  me  to  do  it." 

"And  she's  lying  upstairs  this  very  moment,  all 
cold  and  stiff,"  a  wailing  voice  broke  in. 

It  was  Lucy,  who  could  not  keep  herself  away 
from  us. 

"Will  you  go  to  your  kitchen,  my  girl?"  Rebecca 
drove  her  off.  "And  the  poor  thing's  not  stiff 
either.  Her  poor  body's  as  soft  as  if  she  was  only 
asleep,  and  doctor  says  it  will  be  for  a  day  or  two. 
It's  like  that  when  they're  took  off  like  that,  he  says. 
Oh,  Miss  Carlotta " 

"Tell  me  all  about  it  before  I  go  upstairs,"  I 
said. 

I  had  recovered. 

"Your  poor  aunt  went  to  bed  just  as  soon  as 
you  were  gone,  miss,"  said  Rebecca.  "She  would 
have  it  she  was  quite  well,  only  tired.  I  took  her 
up  a  cup  of  cocoa  at  ten  o'clock,  and  she  seemed 
all  right,  and  then  I  sends  Lucy  to  bed,  and  I  sits 
up  in  the  kitchen  to  wait  for  you.  Not  a  sound 
from  your  poor  aunt.  I  must  have  dropped  asleep, 
miss,  in  my  chair,  and  I  woke  up  with  a  start  like, 
and  the  kitchen  clock  was  near  on  one.  Thinks  I, 
perhaps  Miss  Carlotta's  been  knocking  and  ringing 
all  this  time  and  me  not  heard,  and  I  rushes  to  the 
front  door.  But  of  course  you  weren't  there.  The 
porch  was  nothing  but  a  pool  o'  water.  I  says  to 


70  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

myself, 'she's  stopping  somewhere,' I  says.  And  I 
felt  it  was  my  duty  to  go  and  tell  your  aunt,  whether 
she  was  asleep  or  whether  she  wasn't  asleep. 
Well,  and  there  she  was,  miss,  with  her  eyes  closed, 
and  as  soft  as  a  child.  I  spoke  to  her,  loud,  more  than 
once.  'Miss  Carlotta  a'n't  come,'  I  says.  'Miss  Car- 
lotta  a'n't  come,  ma'am,'  I  says.  She  never  stirred. 
Thinks  I,  this  is  queer,  this  is.  And  I  goes  up  to 
her  and  touches  her.  Chilly!  Then  I  takes  the 
liberty  of  pushing  back  your  poor  aunt's  eyelids, 
and  I  could  but  see  the  whites  of  her  eyes;  the 
eyeballs  was  gone  up  and  a  bit  outwards.  Yes; 
and  her  poor  dear  chin  was  dropped.  Thinks  I, 
here's  trouble,  and  Miss  Carlotta  at  the  concert! 
I  runs  to  our  bedroom  and  I  tells  Lucy  to  put  a 
cloak  on  and  fetch  Dr.  Roycroft.  'Who  for?'  she 
says.  'Never  you  mind  who  for!'  I  says,  says  I. 
'You  up  and  quick.  But  you  can  tell  the  doctor 
it's  missus  as  is  took.'  And  in  ten  minutes 
he  was  here,  miss.  But  it's  only  across  the  garden, 
like.  'Yes,'  he  said,  'she's  been  dead  an  hour  or 
more.  Failure  of  the  heart's  action,'  he  said.  'She 
died  in  her  sleep,'  he  said.  'Thank  God  she  died 
in  her  sleep  if  she  was  to  die,  the  pure  angel!'  I  says. 
I  told  the  doctor  as  you  were  away  for  the  night, 
miss.  And  I  laid  her  out,  miss,  and  your  poor 
auntie  wasn't  me  first,  either.  I've  seen  trouble  — 
I've " 


THE  PRICE  71 

And  Rebecca's  tears  overcame  her  voice. 

"I'll  go  upstairs  with  you,  miss,"  she  struggled 
out. 

One  thought  that  flew  across  my  mind  was  that 
Doctor  Roycroft  was  very  intimate  with  the  Ryleys, 
and  had  doubtless  somehow  informed  them  of  my 
aunt's  death.  This  explained  Fred  Ryley's  strange 
words  and  attitude  to  me  on  the  way  from  the 
station.  The  young  man  had  been  too  timid  to 
stop  me.  The  matter  was  a  trifle,  but  another  idea 
that  struck  me  was  not  a  trifle,  though  I  strove 
to  make  it  so.  My  aunt  had  died  about  midnight, 
and  it  was  at  midnight  that  Diaz  and  I  had  heard 
the  mysterious  knock  on  his  sitting-room  door. 
At  the  time  I  had  remarked  how  it  resembled  my 
aunt's  knock.  Occasionally,  when  the  servants 
overslept  themselves,  Aunt  Constance  would  go  to 
their  rooms  in  her  pale-blue  dressing-gown  and 
knock  on  their  door  exactly  like  that.  Could  it 
be  that  this  was  one  of  those  psychical  manifesta- 
tions of  which  I  had  read?  Had  my  aunt,  in  passing 
from  this  existence  to  the  next,  paused  a  moment 
to  warn  me  of  my  terrible  danger?  My  intellect 
replied  that  a  disembodied  soul  could  not  knock, 
and  that  the  phenomenon  had  been  due  simply  to 
some  guest  or  servant  of  the  hotel  who  had  mistaken 
the  room,  and  discovered  his  error  in  time.  Never- 
theless, the  instinctive  part  of  me  —  that  part  of 


72  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

us  which  refuses  to  fraternize  with  reason,  and 
which  we  call  the  superstitious  because  we  cannot 
explain  it  —  would  not  let  go  the  spiritualistic 
theory,  and  during  all  my  life  has  never  quite  sur- 
rendered it  to  the  attacks  of  my  brain. 

There  was  a  long  pause. 

"No,"  I  said;  "I  will  go  upstairs  alone;"  and  I 
went,  leaving  my  cloak  and  hat  with  Rebecca. 

Already,  to  my  hypersensitive  nostrils,  there  was 
a  slight  odour  in  the  darkened  bedroom.  What 
lay  on  the  bed,  straight  and  long  and  thin,  resembled 
almost  exactly  my  aunt  as  she  lived.  I  forced 
myself  to  look  on  it.'  Except  that  the  face  was 
paler  than  usual,  and  had  a  curious  transparent, 
waxy  appearance,  and  that  the  cheeks  were  a  little 
hollowed,  and  the  lines  from  the  nose  to  the  corners 
of  the  mouth  somewhat  deepened,  there  had  been  no 
outward  change.  .  .  And  this  was  once  she! 
I  thought,  Where  is  she,  then?  Where  is  the  soul? 
Where  is  that  which  loved  me  without  understand- 
ing me?  Where  is  that  which  I  loved?  The 
baffling,  sad  enigma  of  death  confronted  me  in  all 
its  terrifying  crudity.  The  shaft  of  love  and  the 
desolation  of  death  had  struck  me  almost  in  the 
same  hour,  and  before  these  twin  mysteries,  su- 
premely equal,  I  quailed  and  recoiled.  I  had  neither 
faith  nor  friend.  I  was  solitary,  and  my  soul,  also, 
was  solitary.  The  difficulties  of  Being  seemed 


THE  PRICE  73 

insoluble.  I  was  not  a  moral  coward,  I  was  not 
prone  to  facile  repentances;  but  as  I  gazed  at  that 
calm  and  unsullied  mask  I  realized,  whatever  I 
had  gained,  how  much  I  had  lost.  At  twenty-one 
I  knew  more  of  the  fountains  of  life  than  Aunt 
Constance  at  over  sixty.  Poor  aged  thing  that 
had  walked  among  men  for  interminable  years, 
and  never  known!  It  seemed  impossible,  shock- 
ingly against  Nature,  that  my  aunt's  existence 
should  have  been  so!  I  pitied  her  profoundly. 
I  felt  that  essentially  she  was  girlish  compared  to  me. 
And  yet  —  and  yet  —  that  which  she  had  kept  and 
which  I  had  given  away  was  precious,  too  —  inde- 
finably and  wonderfully  precious!  The  price  of 
knowledge  and  of  ecstasy  seemed  heavy  to  me  then. 
The  girl  that  had  gone  with  Diaz  into  that  hotel 
apartment  had  come  out  no  more.  She  had  expired 
there,  and  her  extinction  was  the  price.  Oh,  in- 
nocence! Oh,  divine  ignorance!  Oh,  refusal! 
None  knows  your  value  save  her  who  has  bartered 
you!  And  herein  is  the  woman's  tragedy. 

There  in  that  mausoleum  I  decided  that  I  must 
never  see  Diaz  again.  He  was  fast  in  my  heart, 
a  flashing,  glorious  treasure,  but  I  must  never 
see  him  again.  I  must  devote  myself  to  memory. 

On  the  dressing-table  lay  a  brown-paper  parce1 
which  seemed  out  of  place  there.  I  opened  it, 
and  found  a  magnificently  bound  copy  of  The 


74  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

Imitation  of  Christ.  Upon  the  flyleaf  was  written: 
"To  dearest  Carlotta  on  attaining  her  majority. 
With  fondest  love.  C.  P." 

It  was  too  much;  it  was  overwhelming.  I  wept 
again.  Soul  so  kind  and  pure!  The  sense  of  my 
loss,  the  sense  of  the  simple,  proud  rectitude  of 
her  life,  laid  me  low. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  FEAR  OR  THE  HOPE 

TRAIN  journeys  have  too  often  been  sor- 
rowful for  me,  so  much  so  that  the 
conception  itself  of  a  train,  crawling  over 
the  country  like  a  snake,  or  flying  across  it  like 
a  winged  monster,  fills  me  with  melancholy.  Trains 
loaded  with  human  parcels  of  sadness  and  illusion 
and  brief  joy,  wandering  about,  crossing,  and 
occasionally  colliding  in  the  murk  of  existence; 
trains  warmed  and  lighted  in  winter;  trains 
open  to  catch  the  air  of  your  own  passage  in 
summer;  night-trains  that  pierce  the  night  with 
your  yellow,  glaring  eyes,  and  waken  mysterious 
villages,  and  leave  the  night  behind  and  run  into 
the  dawn  as  into  a  station;  trains  that  carry  bread 
and  meats  for  the  human  parcels,  and  pillows  and 
fountains  of  fresh  water;  trains  that  sweep  haughtily 
and  wearily  indifferent  through  the  landscapes  and 
the  towns,  sufficient  unto  yourselves,  hasty,  panting, 
formidable,  and  yet  mournful  entities:  I  have  under- 
stood you  in  your  arrogance  and  your  pathos! 

That   little   journey   from    Knype    to    Shawport 


76  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

had  implanted  itself  painfully  in  my  memory,  as 
though  during  it  I  had  peered  too  closely  into  the 
face  of  life.  And  now  I  had  undertaken  another, 
and  a  longer  one.  Three  months  had  elapsed  — 
three  months  of  growing  misery  and  despair;  three 
months  of  tedious  familiarity  with  lawyers  and 
distant  relatives,  and  all  the  exasperating  camp- 
followers  of  death;  three  months  of  secret  and  strange 
fear,  waxing  daily.  And  at  last,  amid  the  expos- 
tulations and  the  shrugs  of  wisdom  and  age,  I  had 
decided  to  go  to  London.  I  had  little  energy,  and 
no  interest,  but  I  saw  that  I  must  go  to  London; 
I  was  driven  there  by  my  secret  fear;  I  dared  not 
delay.  And  not  a  soul  in  the  wide  waste  of  the 
Five  Towns  comprehended  me,  nor  could  have  com- 
prehended me  had  it  been  so  minded.  I  might  have 
shut  up  the  house  for  a  time.  But  no;  I  would  not. 
I  have  always  been  sudden,  violent,  and  arbitrary; 
I  have  never  been  able  to  tolerate  half-measures, 
or  to  wait  upon  occasion.  I  sold  the  house;  I  sold 
the  furniture.  Yes;  and  I  dismissed  my  faithful 
Rebecca  and  the  clinging  Lucy,  and  they  departed, 
God  knows  where;  it  was  as  though  I  had  sold  them 
into  slavery.  Again  and  again,  in  the  final  week, 
I  cut  myself  to  the  quick,  recklessly,  perhaps  pur- 
posely; I  moved  in  a  sort  of  terrible  languor,  deaf 
to  every  appeal,  pretending  to  be  stony,  and  yet 
tortured  by  my  secret  fear,  and  by  a  hemorrhage 


THE  FEAR  OR  THE  HOPE  77 

of  the  heart  that  no  philosophy  could  stanch. 
And  I  swear  that  nothing  desolated  me  more  than 
the  strapping  and  the  labelling  of  my  trunks  that 
morning  after  I  had  slept,  dreamfully,  in  the  bed 
that  I  should  never  use  again  —  the  bed  that, 
indeed,  was  even  then  the  property  of  a  furniture 
dealer.  Had  I  wept  at  all,  I  should  have  wept  as 
I  wrote  out  the  labels  for  my  trunks:  "Miss  Peel, 
passenger  to  Golden  Cross  Hotel,  London.  Euston 
via  Rugby,"  with  two  thick  lines  drawn  under  the 
"Euston."  That  writing  of  labels  was  the  climax. 
With  a  desperate  effort  I  tore  myself  up  by  the 
roots,  and  all  bleeding  I  left  the  Five  Towns.  I 
have  never  seen  them  since.  Some  day,  when  I 
shall  have  attained  serenity  and  peace,  when  the 
battle  has  been  fought  and  lost,  I  will  revisit  my 
youth.  I  have  always  loved,  passionately,  the 
disfigured  hills  and  valleys  of  the  Five  Towns. 
And  as  I  think  of  Oldcastle  street,  dropping  away 
sleepily  and  respectably  from  the  Town  Hall  of 
Bursley,  with  the  gold  angel  holding  a  gold  crown 
on  its  spire,  I  vibrate  with  an  inexplicable  emotion. 
What  is  there  in  Oldcastle  street  to  disturb  the  dust 
of  the  soul? 

I  must  tell  you  here  that  Diaz  had  gone  to  South 
America  on  a  triumphal  tour  of  concerts,  lest  I 
forget !  I  read  it  in  the  paper. 

So  I  arrived  in  London  on  a  February  day,  about 


78  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

one  o'clock.  And  the  hall-porter  at  the  Golden 
Cross  Hotel,  and  the  two  pale  girls  in  the  bureau 
of  the  hotel,  were  sympathetic  and  sweet  to  me, 
because  I  was  young  and  alone,  and  in  mourning, 
and  because  I  had  great  rings  round  my  eyes.  It 
was  a  fine  day,  blue  and  mild.  At  half-past  three 
I  had  nothing  in  the  world  to  do.  I  had  come  to 
London  without  a  plan,  without  a  purpose,  with 
scarcely  an  introduction.  I  wished  simply  to  plunge 
myself  into  its  solitude,  and  to  be  alone  with  my 
secret  fear.  I  walked  out  into  the  street,  slowly, 
like  one  whom  ennui  has  taught  to  lose  no  chance 
of  dissipating  time.  I  neither  liked  nor  disliked 
London.  I  had  no  feelings  toward  it  save  one  of 
perplexity.  I  thought  it  noisy,  dirty,  and  hurried. 
Its  great  name  roused  no  thrill  in  my  bosom.  On 
the  morrow,  I  said,  I  would  seek  a  lodging,  and 
perhaps  write  to  Ethel  Ryley.  Meanwhile  I  strolled 
up  into  Trafalgar  Square,  and  so  into  Charing  Cross 
Road.  And  in  Charing  Cross  Road  —  it  was  the 
curst  accident  of  fate  —  I  saw  the  signboard  of  the 
celebrated  old  firm  of  publishers,Oakleyand  Dalbiac. 
It  is  my  intention  to  speak  of  my  books  as  little  as 
possible  in  this  history.  I  must,  however,  explain 
that  six  months  before  my  aunt's  death  I  had  already 
written  my  first  novel,  The  Jest,  and  sent  it  to 
precisely  Oakley  and  Dalbiac.  It  was  a  wild 
welter  of  youthful  extravagances,  and  it  aimed 


THE  FEAR  OR  THE  HOPE  79 

to  depict  London  society,  of  which  I  knew  nothing 
whatever,  with  a  flippant  and  cynical  pen.  Oakley 
and  Dalbiac  had  kept  silence  for  several  months, 
and  had  then  stated,  in  an  extremely  formal  epistle, 
that  they  thought  the  book  might  have  some  chance 
of  success,  and  that  they  would  be  prepared  to 
publish  it  on  certain  terms,  but  that  I  must  not 
expect,  etc.  By  that  time  I  had  lost  my  original 
sublime  faith  in  the  exceeding  excellence  of  my  story, 
and  I  replied  that  I  preferred  to  withdraw  the  book. 
To  this  letter  I  had  received  no  answer.  When  I 
saw  the  famous  sign  over  a  doorway  the  impulse 
seized  me  to  enter  and  get  the  manuscript,  with 
the  object  of  rewriting  it.  Soon,  I  reflected,  I 
might  not  be  able  to  enter;  the  portals  of  mankind 
might  be  barred  to  me  for  a  space.  .  .  I  saw  in 
a  flash  of  insight  that  my  salvation  lay  in  work,  and 
in  nothing  else.  I  entered,  resolutely.  A  brougham 
was  waiting  at  the  doors. 

After  passing  along  counters  furnished  with 
ledgers  and  clerks,  through  a  long,  lofty  room 
lined  with  great  pigeon-holes  containing  thousands 
of  books,  each  wrapped  separately  in  white  paper, 
I  was  shown  into  what  the  clerk  who  acted  as 
chamberlain  called  the  office  of  the  principal. 
This  room,  too,  was  spacious,  but  so  sombre  that 
the  electric  light  was  already  burning.  The  first 
thing  I  noticed  was  that  the  window  gave  on  a 


8o  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

wall  of  white  tiles.  In  the  middle  of  the  some- 
what dingy  apartment  was  a  vast,  square  table, 
and  at  this  table  sat  a  pale,  tall  man,  whose  youth 
astonished  me  —  for  the  firm  of  Oakley  and  Dalbiac 
was  historic. 

He  did  not  look  up  exactly  at  the  instant  of 
my  entering,  but  when  he  did  look  up,  when  he 
saw  me,  he  stared  for  an  instant,  and  then  sprang 
from  his  chair  as  though  magically  startled  into 
activity.  His  age  was  about  thirty,  and  he  had 
large,  dark  eyes,  and  a  slight,  dark  moustache, 
and  his  face  generally  was  interesting;  he  wore  a 
dark  gray  suit.  I  was  nervous,  but  he  was  even 
more  nervous;  yet  in  the  moment  of  looking  up  he 
had  not  seemed  nervous.  He  could  not  do  enough, 
apparently,  to  make  me  feel  at  ease,  and  to  show 
his  appreciation  of  me  and  my  work.  He  spoke 
enthusiastically  of  The  Jest,  begging  me  neither  to 
suppress  it  nor  to  alter  it.  And,  without  the  least 
suggestion  from  me,  he  offered  me  a  considerable 
sum  of  money  in  advance  of  royalties.  At  that 
time  I  scarcely  knew  what  royalties  were.  But 
although  my  ignorance  of  business  was  complete, 
I  guessed  that  this  man  was  behaving  in  a  manner 
highly  unusual  among  publishers.  He  was  also 
patently  contradicting  the  tenor  of  his  firm's  letter 
to  me.  I  thanked  him,  and  said  I  should  like,  at 
any  rate,  to  glance  through  the  manuscript. 


THE  FEAR  OR  THE  HOPE  81 

"Don't  alter  it,  Miss  Peel,  I  beg,"  he  said.  "It 
is  'young,'  I  know;  but  it  ought  to  be.  I  remember 
my  wife  said  —  my  wife  reads  many  of  our  manu- 
scripts— by  the  way "  He  went  to  a  door, 

opened  it,  and  called  out,  "Mary!" 

A  tall  and  slim  woman,  extremely  elegant,  ap- 
peared in  reply  to  this  appeal.  Her  hair  was  gray 
above  the  ears,  and  I  judged  that  she  was  four  or 
five  years  older  than  the  man.  She  had  a  kind,  thin 
face,  with  shining  gray  eyes,  and  she  was  wearing  a 
hat. 

"Mary,  this  is  Miss  Peel,  the  author  of  The  Jest 
—  you  remember.  Miss  Peel,  my  wife." 

The  woman  welcomed  me  with  quick,  sincere 
gestures.  Her  smile  was  very  pleasant,  and  yet  a 
sad  smile.  The  husband,  also,  had  an  air  of  quiet 
restrained,  cheerful  sadness. 

"My  wife  is  frequently  here  in  the  afternoon 
like  this,"  said  the  principal.  •*  \ 

"Yes,"  she  laughed;  "it's  quite  a  family  affair, 
and  I'm  almost  on  the  staff.  I  distinctly  remember 
your  manuscript,  Miss  Peel,  and  how  very  clever 
and  amusing  it  was." 

Her  praise  was  spontaneous  and  cordial,  but  it 
was  a  different  thing  from  the  praise  of  her  husband. 
He  obviously  noticed  the  difference. 

"I  was  just  saying  to  Miss  Peel — "  he  began, 
with  increased  nervousness. 


82  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

"Pardon  me,"  I  interrupted.  "But  am  I  speak- 
ing to  Mr.  Oakley  or  Mr.  Dalbiac?" 

"To  neither,"  said  he.  "My  name  is  Ispenlove, 
and  I  am  the  nephew  of  the  late  Mr.  Dalbiac. 
Mr.  Oakley  died  thirty  years  ago.  I  have  no 
partner." 

"You  expected  to  see  a  very  old  gentleman,  no 
doubt,"  Mrs.  Ispenlove  remarked. 

"Yes,"  I  smiled. 

"People  often  do.  And  Frank  is  so  very  young. 
You  live  in  London?" 

"No,"  I  said;  "I  have  just  come  up." 

"To  stay?" 

"To  stay." 

"Alone?" 

"Yes.  My  aunt  died  a  few  months  ago.  I  am 
all  that  is  left  of  my  family." 

*     Mrs.  Ispenlove's  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  she 
fingered  a  gold  chain  that  hung  from  her  neck. 

"But  have  you  got  rooms  —  a  house?" 
.  "I  am  at  a  hotel  for  the  moment." 

"But  you  have  friends?" 

I  shook  my  head.  Mr.  Ispenlove  was  glancing 
rapidly  from  one  to  the  other  of  us. 

"My  dear  young  lady!"  exlaimed  his  wife.  Then 
she  hesitated,  and  said:  "Excuse  my  abruptness, 
but  do  let  me  beg  you  to  come  and  have  tea  with 
us  this  afternoon.  We  live  quite  near  —  in  Blooms- 


THE  FEAR  OR  THE  HOPE  83 

bury  Square.     The  carriage  is  waiting.     Frank,  you 
can  come?" 

"I  can  come  for  an  hour,"  said  Mr.  Ispenlove. 
*  I  wanted  very  much  to  decline,  but  I  could  not. 
I  could  not  disappoint  that  honest  and  generous 
kindliness,  with  its  touch  of  melancholy.  I  could 
not  refuse  those  shining  gray  eyes.  I  saw  that  my 
situation  and  my  youth  had  lacerated  Mrs.  Ispen- 
love's  sensitive  heart,  and  that  she  wished  to  give 
it  balm  by  being  humane  to  me. 

We  seemed,  so  rapid  was  our  passage,  to  be 
whisked  on  an  Arabian  carpet  to  a  spacious  drawing- 
room,  richly  furnished,  with  thick  rugs  and  ample 
cushions  and  countless  knicknacks  and  photographs 
and  delicately-tinted  lampshades.  There  was  a 
grand  piano  by  Steinway,  and  on  it  Mendelssohn's 
Songs  without  Words.  The  fire  slumbered  in  a 
curious  grate  that  projected  several  feet  into  the 
room — such  a  contrivance  I  had  never  seen  before. 
Near  it  sat  Mrs.  Ispenlove,  entrenched  behind  a 
vast  copper  disc  on  a  low  wicker  stand,  pouring  out 
tea.  Mr.  Ispenlove  hovered  about.  He  and  his 
wife  called  each  other  "dearest."  "Ring  the  bell 
for  me,  dearest."  "Yes,  dearest."  I  felt  sure  that 
they  had  no  children.  They  were  very  intimate, 
very  kind,  and  always  gently  sad.  The  atmosphere 
was  charmingly  domestic,  even  cosy,  despite  the 
size  of  the  room  —  a  most  pleasing  contrast  to  the 


84  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

offices  which  we  had  just  left.  Mrs.  Ispenlove 
told  her  husband  to  look  after  me  well,  and  he 
devoted  himself  to  me. 

"Do  you  know,"  said  Mrs.  Ispenlove,  "I  am 
gradually  recalling  the  details  of  your  book,  and 
you  are  not  at  all  the  sort  of  person  that  I  should 
have  expected  to  see." 

"But  that  poor  little  book  isn't  me,"  I  answered. 
"I  shall  never  write  another  like  it.  I  only " 

"Shall  you  not?"  Mr.  Ispenlove  interjected. 
"I  hope  you  will,  though." 

I  smiled. 

"I  only  did  it  to  see  what  I  could  do.  I  am 
going  to  begin  something  quite  different." 

"It  appears  to  me,"  said  Mrs.  Ispenlove  —  "and 
I  must  again  ask  you  to  excuse  my  freedom,  but 
I  feel  as  if  I  had  known  you  a  long  time  —  it  appears 
to  me  that  what  you  want  immediately  is  a  complete 
rest." 

"Why  do  you  say  that?"  I  demanded. 

"You  do  not  look  well.  You  look  exhausted 
and  worn  out." 

I  blushed  as  she  gazed  at  me.  Could  she  —  ? 
No.  Those  simple  gray  eyes  could  not  imagine 
evil.  Nevertheless,  I  saw  too  plainly  how  foolish 
I  had  been.  I,  with  my  secret  fear,  that  was  becom- 
ing less  a  fear  than  a  dreadful  certainty,  to  permit 
myself  to  venture  into  that  house!  I  might  have 


THE  FEAR  OR  THE  HOPE  85 

to  fly  ignominiously  before  long,  to  practise  elabo- 
rate falsehood,  to  disappear. 

"Perhaps  you  are  right,"  I  agreed. 

The  conversation  grew  fragmentary,  and  less 
and  less  formal.  Mrs.  Ispenlove  was  the  chief 
talker.  I  remember  she  said  that  she  was  always 
being  thrown  among  clever  people, '  people  who 
could  do  things,  and  that  her  own  inability  to  do 
anything  at  all  was  getting  to  be  an  obsession  with 
her;  and  that  people  like  me  could  have  no  idea  of 
the  tortures  of  self-depreciation  which  she  suffered. 
Her  voice  was  strangely  wistful  during  this  confes- 
sion. She  also  spoke — once  only,  and  quite  shortly, 
but  with  what  nai've  enthusiasm! — of  the  high 
mission  and  influence  of  the  novelist  who  wrote 
purely  and  conscientiously.  After  this,  though  my 
liking  for  her  was  undiminished,  I  had  summed  her 
up.  Mr.  Ispenlove  offered  no  commentary  on  his 
wife's  sentiments.  He  struck  me  as  being  a  re- 
served man,  whose  inner  life  was  intense  and  suffi- 
cient to  him. 

"Ah!"  I  reflected,  as  Mrs.  Ispenlove,  with  an 
almost  motherly  accent,  urged  me  to  have  another 
cup  of  tea,  "if  you  knew  me,  if  you  knew  me, 
what  would  you  say  to  me?  Would  your  charity 
be  strong  enough  to  overcome  your  instincts?" 
And  as  I  had  felt  older  than  my  aunt,  so  I  felt 
older  than  Mrs.  Ispenlove. 


86  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

I  left,  but  I  had  to  promise  to  come  again  on 
the  morrow,  after  I  had  seen  Mr.  Ispenlove  on  busi- 
ness. The  publisher  took  me  down  to  my  hotel 
in  the  brougham  (and  I  thought  of  the  drive  with 
Diaz,  but  the  water  was  not  streaming  down  the 
windows),  and  then  he  returned  to  his  office. 

Without  troubling  to  turn  on  the  light  in  my 
bedroom,  I  sank,  sighing,  onto  the  bed.  The  event 
of  the  afternoon  had  roused  me  from  my  terrible 
lethargy,  but  now  it  overcame  me  again.  I  tried 
to  think  clearly  about  the  Ispenloves,  and  what  the 
new  acquaintance  meant  for  me;  but  I  could  not 
think  clearly.  I  had  not  been  able  to  think  clearly 
for  two  months.  I  wished  only  to  die.  For  a 
moment  I  meditated  vaguely  on  suicide,  but 
suicide  seemed  to  involve  an  amount  of  complicated 
enterprise  far  beyond  my  capacity.  It  amazed 
me  how  I  had  managed  to  reach  London.  I  must 
have  come  mechanically,  in  a  heavy  dream;  for  I 
had  no  hope,  no  energy,  no  vivacity,  no  interest. 
For  many  weeks  my  mind  had  revolved  round 
an  awful  possibility,  as  if  hypnotized  by  it,  and  that 
monotonous  revolution  seemed  alone  to  constitute 
my  real  life.  Moreover,  I  was  subject  to  recurring 
nausea,  and  to  disconcerting  bodily  pains  and 
another  symptom. 

"This  must  end!"  I  said,  struggling  to  my 
feet. 


THE  FEAR  OR  THE  HOPE  87 

I  summoned  the  courage  of  an  absolute  dis- 
gust. I  felt  that  the  power  which  had  triumphed 
over  my  dejection  and  my  irresolution  and 
brought  me  to  London  might  carry  me  a  little 
further. 

Leaving  the  hotel,  I  crossed  the  Strand.  In- 
numerable omnibuses  were  crawling  past.  I  jumped 
into  one  at  hazard,  and  the  conductor  put  his  arm 
behind  my  back  to  support  me.  He  was  shouting, 
"Putney,  Putney,  Putney!"  in  an  absent-minded 
manner;  he  had  assisted  me  to  mount  without  even 
looking  at  me.  I  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  omnibus 
and  sat  down,  and  the  omnibus  moved  off.  I 
knew  not  where  I  was  going;  Putney  was  nothing  but 
a  name  to  me. 

"Where  to,  lady?"  snapped  the  conductor, 
coming  upstairs. 

"Oh,  Putney,"  I  answered. 

A  little  bell  rang  and  he  gave  me  a  ticket.  The 
omnibus  was  soon  full.  A  woman  with  a  young 
child  shared  my  seat.  But  the  population  of  the 
roof  was  always  changing.  I  alone  remained  —  so 
it  appeared  to  me.  And  we  moved  interminably 
forward  through  the  gas-lit  and  crowded  streets, 
under  the  mild  night.  Occasionally,  when  we  came 
within  the  circle  of  an  arc-lamp,  I  could  see  all  my 
fellow-passengers  very  clearly;  then  they  were 
nothing  but  dark,  featureless  masses.  The  horses  of 


88  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

the  omnibus  were  changed.  A  score  of  times  the 
conductor  came  briskly  upstairs,  but  he  never  looked 
at  me  again.  "I've  done  with  you,"  his  back 
seemed  to  say. 

The  houses  stood  up  straight  and  sinister,  thou- 
sands of  houses  unendingly  succeeding  each  other. 
Some  were  brilliantly  illuminated;  some  were  dark; 
and  some  had  one  or  two  windows  lighted.  The 
phenomenon  of  a  solitary  window,  lighted  high  up 
in  a  house,  filled  me  with  the  sense  of  the  tragic 
romance  of  London.  Why,  I  cannot  tell.  But  it 
did.  London  grew  to  be  almost  unbearably  mourn- 
ful. There  were  too  many  people  in  London. 
Suffering  was  packed  too  close.  One  can  contem- 
plate a  single  affliction  with  some  equanimity,  but 
a  million  griefs,  calamities,  frustrations,  elbowing 

each  other No,  no!  And  in  all  that  multitude 

of  sadnesses  I  felt  that  mine  was  the  worst.  My 
loneliness,  my  fear,  my  foolish  youth,  my  inability 
to  cope  with  circumstance,  my  appalling  ignorance 
of  the  very  thing  which  I  ought  to  know!  It  was 
awful.  And  yet  even  then,  in  that  despairing 
certainty  of  disaster,  I  was  conscious  of  the  beauty 
of  life,  the  beauty  of  life's  exceeding  sorrow,  and 
I  hugged  it  to  me,  like  a  red-hot  iron. 

We  crossed  a  great  river  by  a  great  bridge  — 
a  mysterious  and  mighty  stream;  and  then  the 
streets  closed  in  on  us  again.  And  at  last,  after 


THE  FEAR  OR  THE  HOPE  89 

hours  and  hours,  the  omnibus  swerved  into  a  dark 
road  and  stopped  —  stopped  finally. 

"Putney!"  cried  the  conductor,  like  fate. 

I  descended.  Far  off,  at  the  end  of  the  vista 
of  the  dark  road,  I  saw  a  red  lamp.  I  knew  that 
in  large  cities  a  red  lamp  indicated  a  doctor:  it  was 
the  one  useful  thing  that  I  did  know. 

I  approached  the  red  lamp,  cautiously,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  street.  Then  some  power  forced 
me  to  cross  the  street  and  open  a  wicket.  And  in 
the  red  glow  of  the  lamp  I  saw  an  ivory  button  which 
I  pushed.  I  could  plainly  hear  the  result;  it  made 
me  tremble.  I  had  a  narrow  escape  of  running  away. 
The  door  was  flung  wide,  and  a  middle-aged  woman 
appeared  in  the  bright  light  of  the  interior  of  the 
house.  She  had  a  kind  face.  It  is  astounding, 
the  number  of  kind  faces  one  meets. 

" Is  the  doctor  in?"  I  asked. 

I  would  have  given  a  year  of  my  life  to  hear 
her  say  "No." 

"Yes,  miss,"  she  said.     "Will  you  step  in?" 

Events  seemed  to  be  moving  all  too  rapidly. 

I  passed  into  a  narrow  hall,  with  an  empty  hat- 
rack,  and  so  into  the  surgery.  From  the  back  of 
the  house  came  the  sound  of  a  piano  —  scales, 
played  very  slowly  and  badly.  The  surgery  was 
empty.  I  noticed  a  card  with  letters  of  the  alphabet 
printed  on  it  in  different  sizes;  and  then  the  piano 


90  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

ceased,  and  there  was  the  humming  of  an  air  in  the 
passage,  and  a  tall  man  in  a  frock-coat,  slippered  and 
spectacled,  came  into  the  surgery. 

"Good  evening,  madam,"  he  said  gruffly.  "Won't 
you  sit  down  ?" 

"  I — I — I  want  to  ask  you " 

He  put  a  chair  for  me,  and  I  dropped  into  it. 

"There!"  he  said,  after  a  moment.  "You  felt 
as  if  you  might  faint,  didn't  you?" 

I  nodded.     The  tears  came  into  my  eyes. 

"I  thought  so,"  he  said.  "1*11  just  give  you  a 
draught,  if  you  don't  mind." 

He  busied  himself  behind  me,  and  presently  I 
was  drinking  something  out  of  a  conical-shaped  glass. 

My  heart  beat  furiously,  but  I  felt  strong. 

"I  want  you  to  tell  me,  doctor,"  I  spoke  firmly, 
"whether  I  am  going  to  be  a  mother." 

"Ah?"  he  answered  interrogatively,  and  then 
he  hummed  a  fragment  of  an  air. 

"I  have  lost  my  husband,"  I  was  about  to  add; 
but  suddenly  I  scorned  such  a  weakness  and  shut 
my  lips. 

"Since  when — "  the  doctor  began. 

"No,"  I  heard  him  saying.  "You  have  been 
quite  mistaken.  But  I  am  not  surprised.  Such 
mistakes  are  frequently  made  —  a  kind  of  auto- 
suggestion." 


THE  FEAR  OR  THE  HOPE  91 

"Mistaken!"  I  murmured. 

I  could  not  prevent  the  room  running  round 
me  as  I  reclined  on  the  sofa;  and  I  fainted. 

But  in  the  night,  safely  in  my  room  again  at  the 
hotel,  I  wondered  whether  that  secret  fear,  now 
exorcised,  had  not  also  been  a  hope.  I  wondered.  .  . 


PART  II 
THREE  HUMAN  HEARTS 


CHAPTER  I 

MRS.  SARDIS 

AiD  now  I  was  twenty-six. 
Everyone  who  knows  love  knows  the 
poignant  and  delicious  day  when  the 
lovers,  undeclared,  but  sure  of  mutual  passion, 
await  the  magic  moment  of  avowal,  with  all  its 
changeful  consequences  I  resume  my  fragmen- 
tary narrative  at  such  a  day  in  my  life.  As  for  me, 
I  waited  for  the  avowal  as  for  an  earthquake. 
I  felt  as  though  I  were  the  captain  of  a  ship  on  fire, 
and  the  only  person  aware  that  the  flames  were 
creeping  towards  a  powder  magazine.  And  my 
love  shone  fiercely  in  my  heart,  like  a  southern  star; 
it  held  me,  hypnotized,  in  a  thrilling  and  exquisite 
entrancement,  so  that  if  my  secret,  silent  lover 
was  away  from  me,  as  on  that  fatal  night  in  my 
drawing-room,  my  friends  were  but  phantom  pres- 
ences in  a  shadowy  world.  This  is  not  an  exagger- 
ated figure,  but  the  truth,  for  when  I  have  loved  I 
have  loved  much.  .  .  . 

My  drawing-room  in  Bedford  Court,  that  night 
on  which  the  violent   drama   of    my   life    recom- 

95 


96  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

menced,  indicated  fairly  the  sorts  of  successes  which 
I  had  achieved,  and  the  direction  of  my  tastes. 
The  victim  of  Diaz  had  gradually  passed  away, 
and  a  new  creature  had  replaced  her  —  a  creature 
rapidly  developed,  and  somewhat  brazened  in  the 
process  under  the  sun  of  an  extraordinary  double 
prosperity  in  London.  I  had  soon  learnt  that  my 
face  had  a  magic  to  win  for  me  what  wealth  cannot 
buy.  My  books  had  given  me  fame  and  money. 
And  I  could  not  prevent  the  world  from  worshipping 
the  woman  whom  it  deemed  the  gods  had  greatly 
favoured.  I  could  not  have  prevented  it,  even  had 
I  wished,  and  I  did  not  wish.  I  knew  well  that  no 
merit  and  no  virtue,  but  merely  the  accident  of 
facial  curves,  and  the  accident  of  a  convolution  of 
the  brain,  had  brought  me  this  ascendency,  and  at 
first  I  reminded  myself  of  the  duty  of  humility. 
But  when  homage  is  reiterated,  when  the  pleasure 
of  obeying  a  command  and  satisfying  a  caprice  is 
begged  for,  when  roses  are  strewn,  and  even  necks 
put  down  in  the  path,  one  forgets  to  be  humble;  one 
forgets  that  in  meekness  alone  lies  the  sole  good; 
one  confuses  deserts  with  the  hazards  of  heredity. 

However,  in  the  end  fate  has  no  favourites. 

A  woman  who  has  beauty  wants  to  frame  it  in 
beauty.  The  eye  is  a  sensualist,  and  its  appetites, 
once  aroused,  grow.  A  beautiful  woman  takes  the 
same  pleasure  in  the  sight  of  another  beautiful 


MRS.  SARDIS  97 

woman  as  a  man  does;  only  jealousy  or  fear  prevents 
her  from  admitting  the  pleasure.  I  collected  beau- 
tiful women.  .  .  Elegance  is  a  form  of  beauty. 
It  not  only  enhances  beauty,  but  it  is  the  one  thing 
which  will  console  the  eye  for  the  absence  of  beauty. 
The  first  rule  which  I  made  for  my  home  was  that 
in  it  my  eye  should  not  be  offended.  I  lost  much, 
doubtless,  by  adhering  to  it,  but  not  more  than  I 
gained.  And  since  elegance  is  impossible  without 
good  manners,  and  good  manners  are  a  convention, 
though  a  supremely  good  one,  the  society  by  which 
I  surrounded  myself  was  conventional;  superficially, 
of  course,  for  it  is  the  business  of  a  convention  to 
be  not  more  than  superficial.  Some  persons,  after 
knowing  my  drawing-room,  were  astounded  by  my 
books ;  others,  after  reading  my  books,  were  astounded 
by  my  drawing-room;  but  these  persons  lacked 
perception.  Given  elegance,  with  or  without 
beauty  itself,  I  had  naturally  sought,  in  my  friends, 
intellectual  courage,  honest  thinking,  kindness  of 
heart,  creative  talent,  distinction,  wit.  My  search 
had  not  been  unfortunate.  .  .  You  see  Heaven 
had  been  so  kind  to  me! 

That  night  in  my  drawing-room  (far  too  full  of 
bric-a-brac  of  many  climes  and  ages),  beneath  the 
blaze  of  the  two  Empire  chandeliers,  which  Vicary, 
the  musical  composer,  had  found  for  me  in  Chartres, 
there  were  perhaps  a  dozen  guests  assembled. 


98  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

Vicary  had  just  given,  in  his  driest  manner, 
a  description  of  his  recent  visit  to  receive  the  acco- 
lade from  the  Queen.  It  was  replete  with  the  usual 
quaint  Vicary  details  —  such  as  the  solemn  warning 
whisper  of  an  equerry  in  Vicary's  ear  as  he  walked 
backwards,  "Mind  the  edge  of  the  carpet";  and  we 
all  laughed,  I  absently  and  yet  a  little  hysterically 
—  all  save  Vicary,  whose  foible  was  never  to  laugh. 
But  immediately  afterwards  there  was  a  pause, 
one  of  those  disconcerting,  involuntary  pauses  which 
at  a  social  gathering  are  like  a  chill  hint  of  autumn 
in  late  summer,  and  which  accuse  the  hostess.  It 
was  over  in  an  instant;  the  broken  current  was 
resumed;  everybody  pretended  that  everything 
was  as  usual  at  my  receptions.  But  that  pause 
was  the  beginning  of  the  downfall. 

With  a  strong  effort  I  tried  to  escape  from  my 
entrancement,  to  be  interested  in  these  unreal 
shadows  whose  voices  seemed  to  come  to  me  from 
a  distance,  and  to  make  my  glance  forget  the  door, 
where  the  one  reality  in  the  world  for  me,  my  un- 
spoken lover,  should  have  appeared  long  since. 
I  joined  unskilfully  in  a  conversation  which  Vicary 
and  Mrs.  Sardis  and  her  daughter  Jocelyn  were 
conducting  quite  well  without  my  assistance. 
The  rest  were  chattering  now,  in  one  or  two  groups, 
except  Lord  Francis  Alcar,  who,  I  suddenly  noticed, 
sat  alone  on  a  settee  behind  the  piano.  Here  was 


MRS.  SARDIS  99 

another  unfortunate  result  of  my  preoccupation. 
By  what  negligence  had  I  allowed  him  to  be  thus 
forsaken?  I  rose  and  went  across  to  him,  penitent, 
and  glad  to  leave  the  others. 

There  are  only  two  fundamental  differences  in 
the  world  —  the  difference  between  sex  and  sex, 
and  the  difference  between  youth  and  age.  Lord 
Francis  Alcar  was  sixty  years  older  than  me. 
His  life  was  over  before  mine  had  commenced. 
It  seemed  incredible;  but  I  had  acquired  the  whole 
of  my  mundane  experience,  while  he  was  merely 
waiting  for  death.  At  seventy,  men  begin  to  be 
separated  from  their  fellow-creatures.  At  eighty, 
they  are  like  islets  sticking  out  of  a  sea.  At  eighty- 
five,  with  their  trembling  and  deliberate  speech, 
they  are  the  abstract  voice  of  human  wisdom. 
They  gather  wisdom  with  amazing  rapidity  in  the 
latter  years,  and  even  their  folly  is  wise  then.  Lord 
Francis  was  eighty-six;  his  faculties  enfeebled,  but 
intact  after  a  career  devoted  to  the  three  most 
costly  of  all  luxuries  —  pretty  women,  fine  pictures, 
and  rare  books;  a  tall,  spare  man,  quietly  proud 
of  his  age,  his  ability  to  go  out  in  the  evening  unat- 
tended, his  amorous  past,  and  his  contributions 
to  the  history  of  English  printing. 

As  I  approached  him,  he  leaned  forward  into 
his  favourite  attitude,  elbows  on  knees  and  finger- 
tips lightly  touching,  and  he  looked  up  at  me. 


100  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

And  his  eyes,  sunken  and  fatigued  and  yet  audacious, 
seemed  to  flash  out.  He  opened  his  thin  lips  to 
speak.  When  old  men  speak  they  have  the  air 
of  rousing  themselves  from  an  eternal  contemplation 
in  order  to  do  so,  and  what  they  say  becomes  ac- 
cordingly oracular. 

"Pallor  suits  you,"  he  piped  gallantly,  and  then 
added:  "But  do  not  carry  it  to  extremes." 

"Am  I  so  pale,  then?"  I  faltered,  trying  to  smile 
naturally. 

I  sat  down  beside  him,  and  smoothed  out  my 
black  lace  dress;  he  examined  it  like  a  connois- 
seur. 

"Yes,"  he  said  at  length.     "What  is  the  matter?" 

Lord  Francis  charged  this  apparently  simple  and 
naive  question  with  a  strange  intimate  meaning. 
The  men  who  surround  a  woman  such  as  I,  living  as 
I  lived,  are  always  demanding,  with  a  secret  thirst, 
"Does  she  really  live  without  love?  What  does  she 
conceal  ?"  I  have  read  this  interrogation  in  the  eyes 
of  scores  of  men;  but  no  one,  save  Lord  Francis, 
would  have  had  the  right  to  put  it  into  the  tones  of 
his  voice.  We  were  so  mutually  foreign  and  dis- 
interested, so  at  the  opposite  ends  of  life,  that  he 
had  nothing  to  gain  and  I  nothing  to  lose,  and  I 
could  have  permitted  to  this  sage  ruin  of  a  male 
almost  a  confessor's  freedom.  Moreover,  we  had 
an  affectionate  regard  for  each  other. 


MRS.  SARDIS  101 

I  said  nothing,  and  he  repeated  in  his  treble: 

"What  is  the  matter?" 

"Love  is  the  matter!"  I  might  have  passionately 
cried  out  to  him,  had  we  been  alone.  But  I  merely 
responded  to  his  tone  with  my  eyes.  I  thanked  him 
with  my  eyes  for  his  bold  and  flattering  curiosity, 
senile,  but  thoroughly  masculine  to  the  last.  And  I 
said: 

"I  am  only  a  little  exhausted.  I  finished  my 
novel  yesterday." 

It  was  my  sixth  novel  in  five  years. 

"With  you,"  he  said,  "work  is  simply  a  drug." 

"Lord  Francis,"  I  expostulated,  "how  do  you 
know  that?" 

"And  it  has  got  such  a  hold  of  you  that  you 
cannot  do  without  it,"  he  proceeded,  with  slow, 
faint  shrillness.  "Some  women  take  to  morphia, 
others  take  to  work." 

"On  the  contrary,"  I  said,  "I  have  quite  deter- 
mined to  do  no  more  work  for  twelve  months." 

"Seriously?" 

"Seriously." 

He  faced  me,  vivacious,  and  leaned  against  the 
back  of  the  settee. 

"Then  you  mean  to  give  yourself  time  to  love?" 
he  murmured,  as  it  were  with  a  kind  malice,  and 
every  crease  in  his  veined  and  yellow  features  was 
intensified  by  an  enigmatic  smile. 


102  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

"Why  not?"  I  laughed  encouragingly.  "Why 
not?  What  do  you  advise?" 

"I  advise  it,"  he  said  positively.  "I  advise  it. 
You  have  already  wasted  the  best  years." 

"The  best?" 

"One  can  never  afterwards  love  as  one  loves 
at  twenty.  But  there!  You  have  nothing  to 
learn  about  love!" 

He  gave  me  one  of  those  disrobing  glances  of 
which  men  who  have  dedicated  their  existence  to 
women  alone  have  the  secret.  I  shrank  under 
the  ordeal;  I  tried  to  clutch  my  clothes  about  me. 

The  chatter  from  the  other  end  of  the  room  grew 
louder.  Vicary  was  gazing  critically  at  his  chan- 
deliers. 

"Does  love  bring  happiness?"  I  asked  Lord 
Francis,  carefully  ignoring  his  remark. 

"For  forty  years,"  he  quavered,  "I  made  love 
to  every  pretty  woman  I  met,  in  the  search  for 
happiness.  I  may  have  got  five  per  cent,  return 
on  my  outlay,  which  is  perhaps  not  bad  in  these 
hard  times;  but  I  certainly  did  not  get  even  that 
in  happiness.  I  got  it  in  —  other  ways." 

"And  if  you  had  to  begin  afresh?" 

He  stood  up,  turned  his  back  on  the  room,  and 
looked  down  at  me  from  his  bent  height.  His 
knotted  hands  were  shaking,  as  they  always  shook. 

"I  would  do  the  same  again,"  he  whispered. 


MRS.  SARDIS  103 

"Would  you?"  I  said,  looking  up  at  him.  "Truly?" 

"Yes.  Only  the  fool  and  the  very  young  expect 
happiness.  The  wise  merely  hope  to  be  interested, 
at  least  not  to  be  bored,  in  their  passage  through 
this  world.  Nothing  is  so  interesting  as  love  and 
grief,  and  the  one  involves  the  other.  Ah!  would 
I  not  do  the  same  again!" 

He  spoke  gravely,  wistfully,  and  vehemently, 
as  if  employing  the  last  spark  of  divine  fire  that 
was  left  in  his  decrepit  frame.  This  undaunted 
confession  of  a  faith  which  had  survived  twenty 
years  of  inactive  meditation,  this  banner  waved  by 
an  expiring  arm  in  the  face  of  the  eternity  that 
mocks  at  the  transience  of  human  things,  filled  me 
with  admiration.  My  eyes  moistened,  but  I  con- 
tinued to  look  up  at  him. 

"What  is  the  title  of  the  new  book?"  he  demanded 
casually,  sinking  into  a  chair. 

"Burning  Sappho,"  I  answered.  "But  the  title 
is  very  misleading." 

"Bright  star!"  he  exclaimed,  taking  my  hand. 
"With  such  a  title  you  will  surely  beat  the  record 
of  the  Good  Dame." 

"Hush!"  I  enjoined  him. 

Jocelyn  Sardis  was  coming  towards  us. 

The  Good  Dame  was  the  sobriquet  which  Lord 
Francis  had  invented  to  conceal  —  or  to  display  — 
his  courteous  disdain  of  the  ideals  represented  by 


io4  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

Mrs.  Sardis,  that  pillar  long  established,  that 
stately  dowager,  that  impeccable  doyenne  of  serious 
English  fiction.  Mrs.  Sardis  had  captured  two 
continents.  Her  novels,  dealing  with  all  the  pro- 
found problems  of  the  age,  were  read  by  philosophers 
and  politicians,  and  one  of  them  had  reached  a 
circulation  of  a  quarter  of  a  million  copies.  Her 
dignified  and  indefatigable  pen  furnished  her  with 
an  income  of  fifteen  thousand  pounds  a  year. 

Jocelyn  Sardis  was  just  entering  her  mother's 
world,  and  she  had  apparently  not  yet  recovered 
from  the  surprise  of  the  discovery  that  she  was 
a  woman;  a  simple  and  lovable  young  creature  with 
brains  amply  sufficient  for  the  making  of  apple-pies. 
As  she  greeted  Lord  Francis  in  her  clear,  innocent 
voice,  I  wondered  sadly  why  her  mother  should  be 
so  anxious  to  embroider  the  work  of  Nature.  I 
thought  if  Jocelyn  could  just  be  left  alone  to  fall 
in  love  with  some  average,  kindly  stockbroker, 
how  much  more  nearly  the  eternal  purpose  might 
be  fulfilled.  .  . 

"Yes,  I  remember,"  Lord  Francis  was  saying. 
"It  was  at  St.  Malo.  And  what  did  you  think  of 
the  Breton  peasant?" 

"Oh,"  said  Jocelyn,  "mamma  has  not  yet  allowed 
us  to  study  the  condition  of  the  lower  classes  in 
France.  We  are  all  so  busy  with  the  new  Settle- 
ment." 


MRS.  SARDIS  105 

"It  must  be  very  exhausting,  my  dear  child," 
said  Lord  Francis. 

I  rose. 

"  I  came  to  ask  you  to  play  something,"  the  child 
appealed  to  me.  "I  have  never  heard  you  play, 
and  everyone  says " 

"Jocelyn,  my  pet,"  the  precise,  prim  utterance 
of  Mrs.  Sardis  floated  across  the  room. 

"What— mamma?" 

"You  are  not  to  trouble  Miss  Peel.  Perhaps 
she  does  not  feel  equal  to  playing." 

My  blood  rose  in  an  instant.  I  cannot  tell 
why,  unless  it  was  that  I  resented  from  Mrs.  Sardis 
even  the  slightest  allusion  to  the  fact  that  I  was  not 
entirely  myself.  The  latent  antagonism  between 
us  became  violently  active  in  my  heart.  I  believe 
I  blushed.  I  know  that  I  felt  murderous  towards 
Mrs.  Sardis.  I  gave  her  my  most  adorable  smile, 
and  I  said,  with  sugar  in  my  voice: 

"But  I  shall  be  delighted  to  play  for  Jocelyn." 

It  was  an  act  of  bravado  on  my  part  to  attempt 
to  play  the  piano  in  the  mood  in  which  I  found 
myself;  and  that  I  should  have  begun  the  open- 
ing phrase  of  Chopin's  first  Ballade,  that  compo- 
sition so  laden  with  formidable  memories  —  begun 
it  without  thinking  and  without  apprehension  — 
showed  how  far  I  had  lost  my  self-control.  Not 
that  the  silver  sounds  which  shimmered  from  the 


106  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

Broadwood  under  my  feverish  hands  filled  me 
with  sentimental  regrets  for  an  irrecoverable  past. 
No!  But  I  saw  the  victim  of  Diaz  as  though  I 
had  never  been  she.  She  was  for  me  one  of  those 
ladies  that  have  loved  and  are  dead.  The  sim- 
plicity of  her  mind  and  her  situation,  compared 
with  my  mind  and  my  situation,  seemed  unbearably 
piteous  to  me.  Why,  I  knew  not.  The  pathos  of 
that  brief  and  vanished  idyll  overcame  me  like  some 
sad  story  of  an  antique  princess.  And  then,  magic- 
ally, I  saw  the  pathos  of  my  present  position  in  it 
as  in  a  truth-revealing  mirror.  My  fame,  and  my 
knowledge  and  my  experience,  my  trained  imagi- 
nation, my  skill,  my  social  success,  my  wealth, 
were  stripped  away  from  me  as  inessential,  and  I 
was  merely  a  woman  in  love,  to  whom  love  could 
not  fail  to  bring  calamity  and  grief;  a  woman  ex- 
pecting her  lover,  and  yet  to  whom  his  coming 
could  only  be  disastrous;  a  woman  with  a  heart 
divided  between  tremulous  joy  and  dull  sorrow;  who 
was  at  once  in  heaven  and  in  hell;  the  victim  of  love. 
How  often  have  I  called  my  dead  Carlotta  the  victim 
of  Diaz!  Let  me  be  less  unjust,  and  say  that  he, 
too,  was  the  victim  of  love.  What  was  Diaz  but 
the  instrument  of  the  god? 

Jocelyn  stood  near  me  by  the  piano.  I  glanced 
at  her  as  I  played,  and  smiled.  She  answered  my 
smile;  her  eyes  glistened  with  tears;  I  bent  my 


MRS.  SARDIS  107 

gaze  suddenly  to  the  keyboard.  "You  too!"  I 
thought  sadly  of  her,  "You  too — !  .  .  One 
day!  One  day  even  you  will  know  what  life  is, 
and  the  look  in  those  innocent  eyes  will  never  be 
innocent  again!" 

Then  there  was  a  sharp  crack  at  the  other  end 
of  the  room;  the  handle  of  the  door  turned,  and 
the  door  began  to  open.  My  heart  bounded  and 
stopped.  It  must  be  he,  at  last!  I  perceived  the 
fearful  intensity  of  my  longing  for  his  presence. 
But  it  was  only  a  servant  with  a  tray.  My  fingers 
stammered  and  stumbled.  For  a  few  instants 
I  forced  them  to  obey  me;  my  pride  was  equal  to 
the  strain,  though  I  felt  sick  and  faint.  And  then 
I  became  aware  that  my  guests  were  staring  at  me 
with  alarmed  and  anxious  faces.  Mrs.  Sardis  had 
started  from  her  chair.  I  dropped  my  hands.  It 
was  useless  to  fight  further;  the  battle  was  lost. 

"I  will  not  play  any  more,"  I  said  quickly.  "I 
ought  not  to  have  tried  to  play  from  memory. 
Excuse  me." 

And  I  left  the  piano  as  calmly  as  I  could.  I 
knew  that  by  an  effort  I  could  walk  steadily  and 
in  a  straight  line  across  the  room  to  Vicary  and 
the  others,  and  I  succeeded.  They  should  not 
learn  my  secret. 

"Poor  thing!"  murmured  Mrs.  Sardis  sympathet- 
ically. "Do  sit  down,  dear." 


io8  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

"Won't  you  have  something  to  drink?"  said 
Vicary. 

"I  am  perfectly  all  right,"  I  said.  "I'm  only 
sorry  that  my  memory  is  not  what  it  used  to  be." 
And  I  persisted  in  standing  a  few  moments  by  the 
mantelpiece.  In  the  glass  I  caught  one  glimpse 
of  a  face  as  white  as  milk.  Jocelyn  remained  at 
her  post  by  the  piano,  frightened  by  she  knew  not 
what,  like  a  young  child. 

"Our  friend  finished  a  new  work  only  yesterday," 
said  Lord  Francis  shakily.  He  had  followed  me. 
"  She  has  wisely  decided  to  take  a  long  holiday. 
Good-bye,  my  dear." 

These  were  the  last  words  he  ever  spoke  to  me, 
though  I  saw  him  again.  We  shook  hands  in 
silence,  and  he  left.  Nor  would  the  others  stay. 
I  had  ruined  the  night.  We  were  all  self-con- 
scious, diffident,  suspicious.  Even  Vicary  was  em- 
barrassed. How  thankful  I  was  that  my  silent 
lover  had  not  come !  My  secret  was  my  own  — 
and  his.  And  no  one  should  surprise  it  unless  we 
chose.  I  cared  nothing  what  they  thought,  or 
what  they  guessed,  as  they  filed  out  of  the  door,  a 
brilliant  procession,  of  which  I  had  the  right  to  be 
proud;  they  could  not  guess  my  secret.  I  was 
sufficiently  woman  of  the  world  to  baffle  them  as 
long  as  I  wished  to  baffle  them. 

Then    I    noticed    that   Mrs.    Sardis    had    stayed 


MRS.  SARDIS  109 

behind;  she  was  examining  some  lustre-ware  in  the 
further  drawing-room. 

"  I'm  afraid  Jocelyn  has  gone  without  her  mother/* 
I  said  approaching  her. 

"I  have  told  Jocelyn  to  go  home  alone,"  replied 
Mrs.  Sardis.  "The  carriage  will  return  for  me. 
Dear  friend,  I  want  to  have  a  little  talk  with  you. 
Do  you  permit?" 

"I  shall  be  delighted,"  I  said. 

"You  are  sure  you  are  well  enough?" 

"There  is  nothing  whatever  the  matter  with  me," 
I  answered  slowly  and  distinctly.  "Come  to  the 
fire,  and  let  us  be  comfortable."  And  I  told 
Emmeline  Palmer,  my  companion  and  secretary, 
who  just  appeared,  that  she  might  retire  to  bed. 

Mrs.  Sardis  was  nervous,  and  this  condition,  so 
singular  in  Mrs.  Sardis,  naturally  made  me  curious 
as  to  the  cause  of  it.  But  my  eyes  still  furtively 
wandered  to  the  door. 

"My  dear  co-worker,"  she  began,  and  hesitated. 

"Yes,"  I  encouraged  her. 

She  put  her  matron's  lips  together: 

"You  know  how  proud  I  am  of  our  calling,  and 
how  jealous  I  am  of  its  honour  and  its  good  name, 
and  what  a  great  mission  I  think  we  novelists  have 
in  the  work  of  regenerating  the  world." 

I  nodded.  That  kind  of  eloquence  always  makes 
me  mute.  It  leaves  nothing  to  be  said. 


i  io  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

"I  wonder,"  Mrs.  Sardis  continued,  "if  you  have 
ever  realized  what  a  power  you  are  in  England  and 
America  to-day." 

"Power!"  I  echoed.  "I  have  done  nothing  but 
try  to  write  as  honestly  and  as  well  as  I  could  what 
I  felt  I  wanted  to  write." 

"No  one  can  doubt  your  sincerity,  my  dear 
friend,"  Mrs.  Sardis  said.  "And  I  needn't  tell 
you  that  I  am  a  warm  admirer  of  your  talent, 
and  that  I  rejoice  in  your  success.  But  the  tendency 
of  your  work " 

"Surely,"  I  interrupted  her  coldly,  "you  are  not 
taking  the  trouble  to  tell  me  that  my  books  are 
doing  harm  to  the  great  and  righteous  Anglo-Saxon 
public!" 

"Do  not  let  us  poke  fun  at  our  public,  my  dear," 
she  protested.  "I  personally  do  not  believe  that 
your  books  are  harmful,  though  their  originality  is 
certainly  daring,  and  their  realism  startling;  but 
there  exists  a  considerable  body  of  opinion,  as  you 
know,  that  strongly  objects  to  your  books.  It 
may  be  reactionary  opinion,  bigoted  opinion, 
ignorant  opinion,  what  you  like,  but  it  exists,  and 
it  is  not  afraid  to  employ  the  word  '  immoral '.  " 

"What  then?" 

"I  speak  as  one  old  enough  to  be  your  mother, 
and  I  speak  after  all  to  a  motherless  young  girl 
who  happens  to  have  genius  with,  perhaps,  some 


MRS.  SARDIS  in 

of  the  disadvantages  of  genius  when  I  urge  you 
so  to  arrange  your  personal  life  that  this  body  of 
quite  respectable  adverse  opinion  shall  not  find  in 
it  a  handle  to  use  against  the  fair  fame  of  our 
calling." 

"Mrs.  Sardis!"  I  cried.     "What  do  you  mean?" 

I  felt  my  nostrils  dilate  in  anger  as  I  gazed, 
astounded,  at  this  incarnation  of  mediocrity  who 
had  dared  to  affront  me  on  my  own  hearth;  and 
by  virtue  of  my  youth  and  my  beauty,  and  all  the 
homage  I  had  received,  and  the  clear  sincerity 
of  my  vision  of  life,  I  despised  and  detested  the 
mother  of  a  family  who  had  never  taken  one  step 
beyond  the  conventions  in  which  she  was  born. 
Had  she  not  even  the  wit  to  perceive  that  I  was 
accustomed  to  be  addressed  as  queens  are  addressed? 
.  .  .  Then,  as  suddenly  as  it  had  flamed,  my 
anger  cooled,  for  I  could  see  the  painful  earnest- 
ness in  her  face.  And  Mrs.  Sardis  and  I  —  what 
were  we  but  two  groups  of  vital  instincts,  groping 
our  different  ways  out  of  one  mystery  into  another? 
Had  we  made  ourselves?  Had  we  chosen  our 
characters?  Mrs.  Sardis  was  fulfilling  herself,  as 
I  was.  She  was  a  natural  force,  as  I  was.  As  well 
be  angry  with  a  hurricane,  or  the  heat  of  the  sun. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  repeated  quietly.  "Tell 
me  exactly  what  you  mean." 

I  thought  she  was  aiming  at  the  company  which 


ii2  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

I  sometimes  kept,  or  the  freedom  of  my  diversions 
on  the  English  Sabbath.  I  thought  what  trifles 
were  these  compared  to  the  dilemma  in  which, 
possibly  within  a  few  hours,  I  should  find  myself. 

"To  put  it  in  as  few  words  as  possible,"  said 
she,  "I  mean  your  relations  with  a  married  man. 
Forgive  my  bluntness,  dear  girl." 

"My " 

Then  my  secret  was  not  my  secret!  We  were 
chattered  about,  he  and  I!  We  had  not  hidden 
our  feeling,  our  passions.  And  I  had  been  imagin- 
ing myself  a  woman  of  the  world  equal  to  sustaining 
a  difficult  part  in  the  masque  of  existence.  With 
an  abandoned  gesture  I  hid  my  face  in  my  hands 
for  a  moment,  and  then  I  dropped  my  hands,  and 
leaned  forward  and  looked  steadily  at  Mrs.  Sardis. 
Her  eyes  were  kind  enough. 

"You  won't  affect  not  to  understand?"  she  said. 

I  assented  with  a  motion  of  the  head. 

"Many  persons  say  there  is  a  —  a  liaison  between 
you,"  she  said. 

"And  do  you  think  that?"  I  asked  quickly. 

"If  I  had  thought  so,  my  daughter  would  not 
have  been  here  to-night,"  she  said  solemnly.  "No, 
no!  I  do  not  believe  it  for  an  instant,  and  I  brought 
Jocelyn  specially  to  prove  to  the  world  that  I  do 
not.  I  only  heard  the  gossip  a  few  days  ago;  and 
to-night,  as  I  sat  here,  it  was  borne  in  upon  me  that 


MRS.  SARDIS  113 

I  must  speak  to  you  to-night.  And  I  have  done  so. 
Not  everyone  would  have  done  so,  dear  girl.  Most 
of  your  friends  are  content  to  talk  among  them- 
selves." 

"About  me?  Oh!"  It  was  the  expression  of 
an  almost  physical  pain. 

"What  can  you  expect  them  to  do?"  asked  Mrs. 
Sardis  mildly. 

"True,"  I  agreed. 

"You  see,  the  circumstances  are  so  extremely 
peculiar.  Your  friendship  with  her " 

"Let  me  tell  you"  -  —  I  stopped  her  —  "that  not 
a  single  word  has  ever  passed  between  me  and  — 
and  the  man  you  mean,  that  everybody  might  not 
hear.  Not  a  single  word!" 

"Dearest  girl,"  she  exclaimed;  "how  glad  I  am! 
How  glad  I  am!  Now  I  can  take  measures  to " 

"But "I  resumed. 

"But  what?" 

In  a  flash  I  saw  the  futility  of  attempting  to 
explain  to  a  woman  like  Mrs.  Sardis,  who  had  no 
doubts  about  the  utter  righteousness  of  her  own 
code,  whose  rules  had  no  exceptions,  whose  prin- 
ciples could  apply  to  every  conceivable  case,  and 
who  was  the  very  embodiment  of  the  vast  stolid 
London  that  hemmed  me  in  —  of  attempting  to 
explain  to  such  an  excellent,  blind  creature  why, 
and  in  obedience  to  what  ideal,  I  would  not  answer 


ii4  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

for  the  future.  I  knew  that  I  might  as  well  talk  to 
a  church  steeple. 

"Nothing,"  I  said,  rising,  "except  that  I  thank 
you.  Be  sure  that  I  am  grateful.  You  have  had  a. 
task  which  must  have  been  very  unpleasant  to  you." 

She  smiled,  virtuously  happy. 

"You  made  it  easy,"  she  murmured. 

I  perceived  that  she  wanted  to  kiss  me;  but 
I  avoided  the  caress.  How  I  hated  kissing  women! 

"No  more  need  be  said,"  she  almost  whispered, 
as  I  put  my  hand  on  the  knob  of  the  front-door. 
I  had  escorted  her  myself  to  the  hall. 

"Only  remember  your  great  mission,  the  in- 
fluence you  wield,  and  the  fair  fame  of  our  calling." 

My  impulse  was  to  shriek.  But  I  merely  smiled 
as  decently  as  I  could;  and  I  opened  the  door. 

And  there,  on  the  landing,  just  emerging  from 
the  lift,  was  Ispenlove,  haggard,  pale,  his  necktie 
astray.  He  and  Mrs.  Sardis  exchanged  a  brief 
stare;  she  gave  me  a  look  of  profound  pain  and 
passed  in  dignified  silence  down  the  stairs;  Ispenlove 
came  into  the  flat. 

"Nothing  will  convince  her  now  that  I  am  not 
a  liar,"  I  reflected. 

It  was  my  last  thought  as  I  sank,  exquisitely 
drowning,  in  the  sea  of  sensations  caused  by  Ispen- 
love's  presence. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE   AVOWAL 

WITHOUT  a  word,  we  passed  together  into 
the  drawing  room,  and  I  closed  the 
door.  Ispenlove  stood  leaning  against 
the  piano,  as  though  intensely  fatigued;  he  crushed 
his  gibus  with  an  almost  savage  movement,  and 
then  bent  his  large,  lustrous  black  eyes  absently 
on  the  flat  top  of  it.  His  thin  face  was  whiter 
even  than  usual,  and  his  black  hair,  beard  and 
moustache  all  dishevelled;  the  collar  of  his  overcoat 
was  twisted,  and  his  dinner-jacket  rose  an  inch 
above  it  at  the  back  of  the  neck. 

I  wanted  to  greet  him,  but  I  could  not  trust 
my  lips.  And  I  saw  that  he,  too,  was  trying  in 
vain  to  speak. 

At  length  I  said,  with  that  banality  which  too 
often  surprises  us  in  supreme  moments: 

"What  is  it?  Do  you  know  that  your  tie  is 
under  your  ear?" 

And  as  I  uttered  these  words,  my  voice,  breaking 
of  itself  and  in  defiance  of  me,  descended  into  a 
tone  which  sounded  harsh  and  inimical. 


ii6  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

"Ah!"  he  murmured,  lifting  his  eyes  to  mine, 
"if  you  turn  against  me  to-night  I  shall " 

"Turn  against  you!"  I  cried,  shocked.  "Let 
me  help  you  with  your  overcoat!" 

And  I  went  near  him,  meaning  to  take  his  over- 
coat. 

"It's  finished  between  Mary  and  me,"  he  said, 
holding  me  with  his  gaze.  "It's  finished.  I've  no 
one  but  you  now;  and  I've  come  —  I've  come 

He  stopped.  We  read  one  another's  eyes  at 
arm's  length,  and  all  the  sorrow  and  pity  and  love 
that  were  in  each  of  us  rose  to  our  eyes  and  shone 
there.  I  shivered  with  pleasure  when  I  saw  his 
arms  move,  and  then  he  clutched  and  dragged  me 
to  him,  and  I  hid  my  glowing  face  on  his  shoulder, 
in  the  dear  folds  of  his  overcoat,  and  I  felt  his  lips 
on  my  neck.  And  then,  since  neither  of  us  was  a 
coward,  we  lifted  our  heads,  and  our  mouths  met 
honestly  and  fairly,  and,  so  united,  we  shut  our 
eyes  for  an  eternal  moment,  and  the  world  was  not. 

Such  was  the  avowal. 

I  gave  up  my  soul  to  him  in  that  long  kiss;  all 
that  was  me,  all  that  was  most  secret  and  precious 
in  me,  ascended  and  poured  itself  out  through  my 
tense  lips,  and  was  received  by  him.  I  kissed  him 
with  myself,  with  the  entire  passionate  energy  of 
my  being  —  not  merely  with  my  mouth.  And  if 
I  sighed  it  was  because  I  tried  to  give  him  more  — 


THE  AVOWAL  117 

more  than  I  had  —  and  failed.  Ah!  The  sensation 
of  his  nearness,  the  warmth  of  his  face,  the  titilla- 
tion  of  his  hair,  the  slow,  luxurious  intake  of  our 
breaths,  the  sweet  cruelty  of  his  desperate  clutch 
on  my  shoulders,  the  glimpses  of  his  skin  through 
my  eyelashes  when  I  raised  ever  so  little  my  eyelids! 
Pain  and  joy  of  life,  you  were  mingled  then! 

I  remembered  that  I  was  a  woman,  and  disengaged 
myself  and  withdrew  from  him.  I  hated  to  do 
it;  but  I  did  it.  We  became  self-conscious.  The 
brilliant  and  empty  drawing-room  scanned  us  un- 
favourably with  all  its  globes  and  mirrors.  How 
difficult  it  is  to  be  natural  in  a  great  crisis!  Our 
spirits  clamoured  for  expression,  beating  vainly 
against  a  thousand  barred  doors  of  speech.  There 
was  so  much  to  say,  to  explain,  to  define,  and  every- 
thing was  so  confused  and  dizzily  revolving,  that 
we  knew  not  which  door  to  open  first.  And  then 
I  think  we  both  felt,  but  I  more  than  he,  that  ex- 
planations and  statements  were  futile,  that  even  if 
all  the  doors  were  thrown  open  together,  they 
would  be  inadequate.  The  deliciousness  of  silence, 
of  wonder,  of  timidity,  of  things  guessed  at  and 
hidden. 

"  It  makes  me  afraid,"  he  murmured  at  length. 

"What?" 

"To  be  loved  like  that.  .  .  Your  kiss.  .  . 
you  don't  know." 


n8  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

I  smiled  almost  sadly.  As  if  I  did  not  know 
what  my  kiss  had  done!  As  if  I  did  not  know 
that  my  kiss  had  created  between  us  the  happiness 
which  brings  ruin! 

"You  do  love  me?"  he  demanded. 

I  nodded,  and  sat  down. 

"Say  it,  say  it!"  he  pleaded. 

"More  than  I  can  ever  show  you,"  I  said  proudly. 

"Honestly,"  he  said,  "I  can't  imagine  what  you 
have  been  able  to  see  in  me.  I'm  nothing  —  I'm 
nobody " 

"Foolish  boy!"  I  exclaimed.     "You  are  you." 

The  profound  significance  of  that  age-worn 
phrase  struck  me  for  the  first  time. 

He  rushed  to  me  at  the  word  "boy,"  and,  standing 
over  me,  took  my  hand  in  his  hot  hand.  I  let  it 
lie,  inert. 

"But  you  haven't  always  loved  me.  I  have 
always  loved  yow,  from  the  moment  when  I  drove 
with  you,  that  first  day,  from  the  office  of  your 
hotel.  But  you  haven't  always  loved  me." 

"No,"  I  admitted. 

"Then  when  did  you  —  ?     Tell  me." 

"I  was  dull  at  first  —  I  could  not  see.  But 
when  you  told  me  that  the  end  of  Fate  and  Friendship 
was  not  as  good  as  I  could  make  it  —  do  you  remem- 
ber that  afternoon  in  the  office?  —  and  how  reluc- 
tant you  were  to  tell  me,  how  afraid  you  were  to 


THE  AVOWAL  119 

tell  me?  —  your  throat  went  dry,  and  you  stroked 
your  forehead  as  you  always  do  when  you  are  ner- 
vous—  There!  you  are  doing  it  now,  foolish 
boy!" 

I  seized  his  left  arm,  and  gently  pulled  it  down 
from  his  face.  Oh,  exquisite  moment! 

"It  was  brave  of  you  to  tell  me  —  very  brave! 
I  loved  you  for  telling  me.  You  were  quite  wrong 
about  the  end  of  that  book.  You  didn't  see  the 
fine  point  of  it,  and  you  never  would  have  seen  it  — 
and  I  liked  you,  somehow,  for  not  seeing  it,  because 
it  was  so  feminine  —  but  I  altered  the  book  to  please 
you,  and  when  I  had  altered  it,  against  my  con- 
science, I  loved  you  more." 

"It's  incredible!  incredible!"  he  muttered,  half 
to  himself.  "I  never  hoped  till  lately  that  you 
would  care  for  me.  I  never  dared  to  think  of 
such  a  thing.  I  knew  you  oughtn't  to!  It  passes 
comprehension." 

"That  is  just  what  love  does,"  I  said. 

"No,  no,"  he  went  on  quickly;  "you  don't  under- 
stand; you  can't  understand  my  feelings  when  I 
began  to  suspect,  about  two  months  ago,  that, 
after  all,  the  incredible  had  happened.  I'm  nothing 
but  your  publisher.  I  can't  talk.  I  can't  write. 
I  can't  play.  I  can't  do  anything.  And  look  at 
the  men  you  have  here!  I've  sometimes  wondered 
how  often  you've  been  besieged " 


120          THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

"None  of  them  was  like  you,"  I  said.  "Perhaps 
that  is  why  I  have  always  kept  them  off." 

I  raised  my  eyes  and  lips,  and  he  stooped  and 
kissed  me.  He  wanted  to  take  me  in  his  arms 
again,  but  I  would  not  yield  myself. 

"Be  reasonable,"  I  urged  him.  "Ought  we  not 
to  think  of  our  situation?" 

He  loosed  me,  stammering  apologies,  abasing 
himself. 

"I  ought  to  leave  you,  I  ought  never  to  see  you 
again."  He  spoke  roughly.  "What  am  I  doing 
to  you?  You  who  are  so  innocent  and  pure!" 

"I  entreat  you  not  to  talk  like  that,"  I  gasped, 
reddening. 

"But  I  must  talk  like  that,"  he  insisted.  "I 
must  talk  like  that.  You  had  everything  that  a 
woman  can  desire,  and  I  come  into  your  life  and  offer 
you  —  what?" 

"I  have  everything  a  woman  can  desire,"  I  cor- 
rected him  softly. 

"Angel!"  he  breathed.  "If  I  bring  you  disaster, 
you  will  forgive  me,  won't  you?" 

"My  happiness  will  only  cease  with  your  love," 
I  said. 

"Happiness!"  he  repeated.  "I  have  never  been 
so  happy  as  I  am  now;  but  such  happiness  is 
terrible.  It  seems  to  me  impossible  that  such 
happiness  can  last." 


THE  AVOWAL  121 

"Faint  heart!"  I  chided  him. 

"It  is  for  you  I  tremble,"  he  said.  "If  —  if  — " 
He  stopped.  "My  darling,  forgive  me!" 

How  I  pitied  him!  How  I  enveloped  him  in 
an  effluent  sympathy  that  rushed  warm  from  my 
heart!  He  accused  himself  of  having  disturbed 
my  existence.  Whereas,  was  it  not  I  who  had 
disturbed  his?  He  had  fought  against  me,  I  knew 
well,  but  fate  had  ordained  his  defeat.  He  had 
been  swept  away;  he  had  been  captured;  he  had 
been  caught  in  a  snare  of  the  high  gods.  And  he 
was  begging  forgiveness,  he  who  alone  had  made 
my  life  worth  living!  I  wanted  to  kneel  before  him, 
to  worship  him,  to  dry  his  tears  with  my  hair.  I 
swear  that  my  feelings  were  as  much  those  of  a 
mother  as  of  a  lover.  He  was  ten  years  older  than 
me,  and  yet  he  seemed  boyish,  and  I  an  aged  woman 
full  of  experience,  as  he  sat  there  opposite  to 
me  with  his  wide,  melancholy  eyes  and  restless 
mouth. 

"Wonderful,  is  it  not,"  he  said,  "that  we  should 
be  talking  like  this  to-night,  and  only  yesterday 
we  were  Mr.  and  Miss  to  each  other?" 

"Wonderful!"  I  responded.  "But  yesterday  we 
talked  with  our  eyes,  and  our  eyes  did  not  say 
Mr.  or  Miss.  Our  eyes  said  —  Ah,  what  they 
said  can  never  be  translated  into  words!" 

My  gaze  brooded  on  him  like  a  caress,  explored 


122          THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

him  with  the  unappeasable  curiosity  of  love,  and 
blinded  him  like  the  sun.  Could  it  be  true  that 
Heaven  had  made  that  fine  creature  —  noble  and 
modest,  nervous  and  full  of  courage,  impetuous 
and  self-controlled,  but,  above  all  things,  fine  and 
delicate  —  could  it  be  true  that  Heaven  had  made 
him  and  then  given  him  to  me,  with  his  enchanting 
imperfections  that  themselves  constituted  perfec- 
tion? Oh,  wonder,  wonder!  Oh,  miraculous  bounty 
which  I  had  not  deserved!  This  thing  had  hap- 
pened to  me,  of  all  women!  How  it  showed,  by 
comparison,  the  sterility  of  my  success  and  my  fame 
and  my  worldly  splendour!  I  had  hungered  and 
thirsted  for  years;  I  had  travelled  interminably 
through  the  hot  desert  of  my  brilliant  career,  until 
I  had  almost  ceased  to  hope  that  I  should  reach, 
one  evening,  the  pool  of  water  and  the  palm.  And 
now  I  might  eat  and  drink  and  rest  in  the  shade. 
Wonderful! 

"Why  were  you  so  late  to-night?"  I  asked  ab- 
ruptly. 

"  Late  ?"  he  replied  absently.     "  Is  it  late  ?" 

We  both  looked  at  the  clock.  It  was  yet  half  an 
hour  from  midnight. 

"Of  course  it  isn't  —  not  very"  I  said.  "I  was 
forgetting  that.  Everybody  left  so  early." 

"Why  was  that?" 

I  told  him,  in  a  confusion  that  was  sweet  to  me, 


THE  AVOWAL  123 

how  I  had  suffered  by  reason  of  his  failure  to  appear. 
He  glanced  at  me  with  tender  amaze. 

"But  I  am  fortunate  to-day,"  I  exclaimed.  "Was 
it  not  lucky  they  left  when  they  did?  Suppose 
you  had  arrived,  in  that  state,  dearest  man,  and 
burst  into  a  room  full  of  people?  What  would  they 
have  thought?  Where  should  I  have  looked?" 

"Angel!"  he  cried.  "Fm  so  sorry.  I  forgot  it 
was  your  evening.  I  must  have  forgotten.  I 
forgot  everything,  except  that  I  was  bound  to  see 
you  at  once,  instantly,  with  all  speed." 

Poor  boy!  He  was  like  a  bird  fluttering  in  my 
hand.  Millions  of  women  must  have  so  pictured 
to  themselves  the  men  who  loved  them,  and  whom 
they  loved. 

"But  still,  you  were  rather  late,  you  know,"  I 
smiled. 

"Do  not  ask  me  why,"  he  begged,  with  an  expres- 
sion of  deep  pain  on  his  face.  "I  have  had  a  scene 
with  Mary.  It  would  humiliate  me  to  tell  you  — 
to  tell  even  you  —  what  passed  between  us.  But 
it  is  over.  Our  relations  in  the  future  can,  in  any 
case,  never  be  more  than  formal." 

A  spasm  of  fierce  jealousy  shot  through  me  — 
jealousy  of  Mary,  my  friend  Mary,  who  knew 
him  with  such  profound  intimacy  that  they  could 
go  through  a  scene  together  which  was  "humiliat- 
ing." I  saw  that  my  own  intimacy  with  him  was 


I24  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

still  crude  with  the  crudity  of  newness,  and  that 
only  years  could  mellow  it.  Mary,  the  good,  sen- 
timental Mary,  had  wasted  the  years  of  their  mar- 
riage —  had  never  understood  the  value  of  the 
treasure  in  her  keeping.  Why  had  they  always 
been  sad  in  their  house?  What  was  the  origin 
of  that  resigned  and  even  cheerful  gloom  which 
had  pervaded  their  domestic  life,  and  which  I  had 
remarked  on  my  first  visit  to  Bloomsbury  Square? 
Were  these,  too,  mysteries  that  I  must  not  ask 
my  lover  to  reveal?  Resentment  filled  me.  I 
came  near  to  hating  Mary,  not  because  she  had 
made  him  unhappy  —  oh  no!  —  but  because  she 
had  had  the  priority  in  his  regard,  and  because 
there  was  nothing  about  him,  however  secret  and 
recondite,  that  I  could  be  absolutely  sure  of  the 
sole  knowledge  of.  She  had  been  in  the  depths 
with  him.  I  desired  fervently  that  I  also  might 
descend  with  him,  and  even  deeper.  Oh,  that  I 
might  have  the  joy  and  privilege  of  humiliation 
with  him! 

"I  shall  ask  you  nothing,  dearest,"  I  murmured. 
I  had  risen  from  my  seat  and  gone  to  him,  and 
was  lightly  touching  his  hair  with  my  fingers. 
He  did  not  move,  but  sat  staring  into  the  fire.  Some- 
how, I  adored  him  because  he  made  no  response 
to  the  fondling  of  my  hand.  His  strange  accept- 
ance of  the  caress  as  a  matter  of  course  gave  me  the 


THE  AVOWAL  125 

illusion  that  I  was  his  wife,  and  that  the  years 
had  mellowed  our  intimacy. 

"Carlotta!" 

He  spoke  my  name  slowly  and  distinctly,  savour- 
ing it. 

"Yes,"  I  answered  softly  and  obediently. 

"Carlotta!  Listen!  Our  two  lives  are  in  our 
hands  at  this  moment  —  this  moment  while  we 
talk  here." 

His  rapt  eyes  had  not  stirred  from  the  fire. 

"I  feel  it,"   I  said. 

"What  are  we  to  do?  What  shall  we  decide  to 
do?" 

He  slowly  turned  towards  me.  I  lowered  my  glance. 

"I  don't  know,"  I  said. 

"Yes,  you  do,  Carlotta,"  he  insisted.  "You  do 
know." 

His  voice  trembled. 

"Mary  and  I  are  such  good  friends,"  I  said. 
"That  is  what  makes  it  so  — 

"No,  no,  no!"  he  objected  loudly.  His  nerv- 
ousness had  suddenly  increased.  "Don't,  for 
God's  sake,  begin  to  argue  in  that  way!  You 
are  above  feminine  logic.  Mary  is  your  friend. 
Good.  You  respect  her;  she  respects  you.  Good. 
Is  that  any  reason  why  our  lives  should  be  ruined? 
Will  that  benefit  Mary?  Do  I  not  tell  you  that 
everything  has  ceased  between  us?" 


126  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

:     "The  idea  of  being  false  to  Mary 

"There's  no  question  of  being  false.  And  if 
there  was,  could  you  be  false  to  love  rather  than 
to  friendship?  Between  you  and  me  there  is  love; 
between  Mary  and  me  there  is  not  love.  It  isn't 
her  fault,  not  mine,  least  of  all  yours.  It  is  the 
fault  of  the  secret  essence  of  existence.  Have  you 
not  yourself  written  that  the  only  sacred  thing  is 
instinct?  Are  we,  or  are  we  not,  to  be  true  to  our- 
selves?" 

"You  see,"  I  said,  "your  wife  is  so  sentimental. 
She  would  be  incapable  of  looking  at  the  affair  as 
—  as  we  do;  as  I  should  look  at  it  in  her  place." 

I  knew  that  my  protests  were  insincere,  and 
that  all  my  heart  and  brain  were  with  him,  but 
I  could  not  admit  this  frankly.  Ah!  And  I 
knew  also  that  the  sole  avenue  to  peace  and  serenity, 
not  to  happiness,  was  the  path  of  renunciation 
and  of  obedience  to  the  conventions  of  society, 
and  that  this  was  precisely  the  path  which  we 
should  never  take.  And  on  the  horizon  of  our  joy  I 
saw  a  dark  cloud.  It  had  always  been  there,  but  I 
had  refused  to  see  it.  I  looked  at  it  now  steadily. 

"Of  course,"  he  groaned,  "if  we  are  to  be  governed 
by  Mary's  sentimentality 

"Dear  love,"  I  whispered,  "what  do  you  want 
me  to  do?" 

"The  only  possible,  honest,  just  thing.     I  want 


THE  AVOWAL 


127 


you  to  go  away  with  me,  so  that  Mary  can  get  a 
divorce." 

He  spoke  sternly,  as  it  were,  relentlessly. 

"Does  she  guess  —  about  me?"  I  asked,  biting 
my  lip,  and  looking  away  from  him. 

"Not  yet.  Hasn't  the  slightest  notion,  I'm 
sure.  But  I'll  tell  her,  straight  and  fair." 

"Dearest  friend,"  I  said,  after  a  silence,  "per- 
haps I  know  more  of  the  world  than  you  think. 
Perhaps  I'm  a  girl  only  in  years  and  situation. 
Forgive  me  if  I  speak  plainly.  Mary  may  prove 
unfaithfulness,  but  she  cannot  get  a  decree  unless 
she  can  prove  other  things  as  well." 

He  stroked  his  forehead.  As  for  me,  I  shuddered 
with  agitation.  He  walked  across  the  room  and 
back. 

"Angel!"  he  said,  putting  his  white  face  close 
to  mine,  like  an  actor.  "I  will  prove  whether 
your  love  for  me  is  great  enough.  I  have  struck 
her.  I  struck  her  to-night  in  the  presence  of  a 
servant.  And  I  did  it  purposely,  in  cold  blood, 
so  that  she  might  be  able  to  prove  cruelty. 
Ah!  Have  I  not  thought  it  all  out?  Have  I  not?" 

A  sob,  painfully  escaping,  shook  my  whole  frame. 

"And  this  was  before  you  had  —  had  spoken  to 
me!"  I  said  bitterly. 

Not  myself,  but  some  strange  and  frigid  force 
within  me  uttered  those  words. 


128  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

"That  is  what  love  will  do.  That  is  the  sort 
of  thing  love  drives  one  to,"  he  cried  despairingly. 
"  Oh,  I  was  not  sure  of  you  —  I  was  not  sure  of 
you.  I  struck  her,  on  the  off  chance." 

And  he  sank  on  the  sofa  and  wept  passionately, 
unashamed,  like  a  child. 

I  could  not  bear  it.  My  heart  would  ha\ 
broken  if  I  had  watched,  without  assuaging,  nr. 
boy's  grief  an  instant  longer  than  I  did.  I  sprang 
to  him.  I  took  him  to  my  breast.  I  kissed  his 
eyes  until  the  tears  ceased  to  flow.  Whatever 
it  was  or  might  be,  I  must  share  his  dishonour. 

"My  poor  girl!"  he  said  at  length.  "If  you  had 
refused  me,  if  you  had  even  judged  me,  I  intended 
to  warn  you  plainly  that  it  meant  my  death;  and 
if  that  failed,  I  should  have  gone  to  the  office  and 
shot  myself." 

"Do  not  say  such  things,"     I  entreated  him. 

"But  it  is  true.  The  revolver  is  in  my  pocket. 
Ah!  I  have  made  you  cry!  You're  frightened! 
But  I'm  not  a  brute;  I'm  only  a  little  beside 
myself.  Pardon  me,  angel!" 

He  kissed  me,  smiling  sadly  with  a  trace  of  hu- 
mour. He  did  not  understand  me.  He  did  not 
suspect  the  risk  he  had  run.  If  I  had  hesitated 
to  surrender,  and  he  had  sought  to  move  me 
by  threatening  suicide,  I  should  never  have  sur- 
rendered. I  knew  myself  well  enough  to  know  that. 


THE  AVOWAL  129 

I  had  a  conscience  that  was  incapable  of  yielding 
to  panic.  A  threat  would  have  parted  us,  perhaps 
for  ever.  Oh,  the  blindness  of  man!  But  I  forgave 
him.  Nay,  I  cherished  him  the  more  for  his  child- 
like, savage  simplicity. 

"Carlotta,"  he  said,  "we  shall  leave  everything. 
You  grasp  it?  —  Everything." 

"Yes,"  I  replied.  "Of  all  the  things  we  have 
now,  we  shall  have  nothing  but  ourselves." 

"If  I  thought  it  was  a  sacrifice  for  you,  I  would 
go  out  and  never  see  you  again." 

Noble  fellow,  proud  now  in  the  certainty  that 
he  sufficed  for  me!  He  meant  what  he  said. 

"It  is  no  sacrifice  for  me,"  I  murmured.  "The 
sacrifice  would  be  not  to  give  up  all  in  exchange 
for  you." 

"We  shall  be  exiles,"  he  went  on,  "until  the 
divorce  business  is  over.  And  then  perhaps  we 
shall  creep  back  —  shall  we?  —  and  try  to  find  out 
how  many  of  our  friends  are  our  equals  in  moral 
courage." 

"Yes,"  I  said.  "We  shall  come  back.  They 
all  do." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  demanded. 

"Thousands  have  done  what  we  are  going  to 
do,"  I  said.  "And  all  of  them  have  thought  that 
their  own  case  was  different  from  the  other  cases." 

"Ah!" 


130  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

"And  a  few  have  been  happy.  A  few  have 
not  regretted  the  price.  A  few  have  retained  the 
illusion." 

"Illusion?  Dearest  girl,why  do  you  talk  like  this?" 

I  could  see  that  my  heart's  treasure  was  ruffled. 
He  clasped  my  hand  tenaciously. 

"I  must  not  hide  from  you  the  kind  of  woman 
you  have  chosen,"  I  answered  quietly,  and  as  I 
spoke  a  hush  fell  upon  my  amorous  passion.  "In 
me  there  are  two  beings  —  myself  and  the  observer 
of  myself.  It  is  the  novelist's  disease,  this  dupli- 
cation of  personality.  When  I  said  illusion,  I 
meant  the  supreme  illusion  of  love.  Is  it  not  an 
illusion?  I  have  seen  it  in  others,  and  in  exactly 
the  same  way  I  see  it  in  myself  and  I  see  it  in  you. 
Will  it  last? — who  knows?  None  can  tell." 

"Angel!"  he  expostulated. 

"No  one  can  foresee  the  end  of  love,"  I  said, 
with  an  exquisite,  gentle  sorrow.  "But  when  the 
illusion  is  as  intense  as  mine,  as  yours,  even  if  its 
hour  is  brief,  that  hour  is  worth  all  the  terrible 
years  of  disillusion  which  it  will  cost.  Darling, 
this  precious  night  alone  would  not  be  too  dear  if 
I  paid  for  it  with  the  rest  of  my  life." 

He  thanked  me  with  a  marvellous  smile  of  con- 
fident adoration,  and  his  disengaged  hand  played 
with  the  gold  chain  which  hung  loosely  round  my 
neck. 


THE  AVOWAL  131 

"Call  it  illusion  if  you  like,"  he  said.  "Words 
are  nothing.  I  only  know  that  for  me  it  will  be 
eternal.  I  only  know  that  my  one  desire  is  to  be 
with  you  always,  never  to  leave  you,  not  to  miss 
a  moment  of  you;  to  have  you  for  mine,  openly? 
securely.  Carlotta,  where  shall  we  go?" 

"We  must  travel,  musn't  we?" 

"Travel?"  he  repeated,  with  an  air  of  discontent. 

"Travel,"  I  said.     "See  things.     See  the  .world." 

"  I  had  thought  we  might  find  some  quiet  little 
place,"  he  said  wistfully,  and  as  if  apologetically, 
where  we  could  be  alone,  undisturbed,  some  spot 
where  we  could  have  ourselves  wholly  to  ourselves, 
and  go  walks  into  mountains  and  return  for  dinner; 
and  then  the  long,  calm  evenings!  Dearest,  our 
honeymoon!" 

Our  honeymoon!  I  had  not,  in  the  pursuit  of 
my  calling,  studied  human  nature  and  collected 
documents  for  nothing.  With  how  many  brides 
had  I  not  talked!  How  many  loves  did  I  not 
know  to  have  been  paralyzed  and  killed  by  a  surfeit 
in  the  frail,  early  stages  of  their  existence!  Inex- 
perienced as  I  was,  my  learning  in  humanity  was 
wiser  than  the  experience  of  my  impulsive,  generous, 
magnanimous  lover,  to  whom  the  very  thought 
of  calculation  would  have  been  abhorrent.  But 
I  saw,  I  felt,  I  lived  through  in  a  few  seconds  the 
interminable  and  monotonous  length  of  those  calm 


132  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

days,  and  especially  those  calm  evenings  succeed- 
ing each  other  with  a  formidable  sameness.  I  had 
watched  great  loves  faint  and  die.  And  I  knew 
that  our  love  —  miraculously  sweet  as  it  was  —  prob- 
ably was  not  greater  than  many  great  ones  that 
had  not  stood  the  test.  You  perceive  the  cold 
observer  in  me.  I  knew  that  when  love  lasted, 
the  credit  of  the  survival  was  due  far  more  often 
to  the  woman  than  to  the  man.  The  woman 
must  husband  herself,  dole  herself  out,  economize 
herself  so  that  she  might  be  splendidly  wasteful 
when  need  was.  The  woman  must  plan,  scheme, 
devise,  invent,  reconnoitre,  take  precautions;  and 
do  all  this  sincerely  and  lovingly  in  the  name  and 
honour  of  love.  A  passion,  for  her,  is  a  campaign; 
and  her  deadliest  enemy  is  satiety.  Looking  into 
my  own  heart,  and  into  his,  I  saw  nothing  but 
hope  for  the  future  of  our  love.  But  the  beauti- 
ful plant  must  not  be  exposed  to  hazard.  Suppose 
it  sickened,  such  a  love  as  ours  —  what  then?  The 
misery  of  hell,  the  torment  of  the  damned!  Only 
its  rich  and  ample  continuance  could  justify 
us. 

"My  dear,"  I  said  submissively,  "I  shall  leave 
everything  to  you.  The  idea  of  travelling  oc- 
curred to  me;  that  was  all.  I  have  never  travelled 
further  than  Cannes.  Still,  we  have  all  our  lives 
before  us." 


THE  AVOWAL  133 

"We  will  travel,"  he  said  unselfishly.  "We'll 
go  around  the  world  —  slowly.  I'll  get  the  tickets 
at  Cook's  to-morrow." 

"But,  dearest,  if  you  would  rather " 

"No,  no!  In  any  case  we  shall  always  have  our 
evenings." 

"Of  course  we  shall.  Dearest,  how  good  you 
are!" 

"I  wish  I  was,"  he  murmured. 

I  was  glad,  then,  that  I  had  never  allowed  my 
portrait  to  appear  in  a  periodical.  We  could  not 
prevent  the  appearance  in  American  newspapers  of 
heralding  paragraphs,  but  the  likelihood  of  our 
being  recognized  was  sensibly  lessened. 

"Can  you  start  soon?"  he  asked.  "Can  you  be 
ready?" 

"Any  time.  The  sooner  the  better,  now  that 
it  is  decided." 

"You  do  not  regret?  We  have  decided  so  quickly. 
Ah!  you  are  the  merest  girl,  and  I  have  taken  ad- 
vantage   " 

I  put  my  hand  over  his  mouth.  He  seized  it, 
and  kept  it  there  and  kissed  it,  and  his  ardent 
breath  ran  through  my  fingers. 

"What  about  your  business?"  I  said. 

"I  shall  confide  it  to  old  Tate  —  tell  him  some 
story  —  he  knows  quite  as  much  about  it  as  I  do. 
To-morrow  I  will  see  to  all  that.  The  day  after, 


134  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

shall  we  start?  No;  to-morrow  night.  To  morrow 
night,  eh?  I'll  run  in  to-morrow  and  tell  you  what 
I've  arranged.  I  must  see  you  to-morrow  early." 

"No,"  I  said.     "Do  not  come  before  lunch." 

"Not  before  lunch!     Why?" 

He  was  surprised.  But  I  had  been  my  own 
mistress  for  years,  with  my  own  habits,  rules, 
privacies.  I  had  never  seen  anyone  before  lunch. 
And  to-morrow,  of  all  days,  I  should  have  so  much 
to  do  and  to  arrange.  Was  this  man  to  come 
like  an  invader  and  disturb  my  morning?  So  felt 
the  celibate  in  me,  instinctively,  thoughtlessly. 
That  deep-seated  objection  to  the  intrusion  of  even 
the  most  loved  male  at  certain  times  is  common, 
I  think,  to  all  women.  Women  are  capable  of 
putting  love  aside,  like  a  rich  dress,  and  donning 
the  peignoir  of  matter-of-fact  dailiness,  in  a  way 
which  is  an  eternal  enigma  to  men.  .  .  Then  I 
saw,  in  a  sudden  flash,  that  I  had  renounced  my 
individual  existence,  that  I  had  forfeited  my  habits 
and  rules  and  privacies,  that  I  was  a  man's  woman. 
And  the  passionate  lover  in  me  gloried  in  this. 

"Come  as  soon  as  you  like,  dearest  friend,"  I 
said. 

"Nobody  except  Mary  will  know  anything  till 
we  are  actually  gone,"  he  remarked.  "And  I  shall 
not  tell  her  till  the  last  thing.  Afterwards,  won't 
they  chatter!  God!  Let  'em." 


THE  AVOWAL  135 

"They  are  already  chattering,"  I  said.  And  I 
told  him  about  Mrs.  Sardis.  "When  she  met  you 
on  the  landing,"  I  added,  "she  drew  her  own  con- 
clusions, my  poor,  poor  boy!" 

He  was  furious.  I  could  see  he  wanted  to  take 
me  in  his  arms  and  protect  me  masculinely  from 
the  rising  storm. 

"All  that  is  nothing,"  I  soothed  him.  "Nothing. 
Against  it,  we  have  our  self-respect.  We  can  scorn 
all  that."  And  I  gave  a  short,  contemptuous  laugh. 

"Darling!"  he  murmured.  "You  are  more  than 
a  woman." 

"I  hope  not."  And  I  laughed  again,  but  un- 
naturally. 

He  had  risen;  I  leaned  back  in  a  large  cushioned 
chair;  we  looked  at  each  other  in  silence  —  a  silence 
that  throbbed  with  the  heavy  pulse  of  an  unutter- 
able and  complex  emotion  —  pleasure,  pain,  appre- 
hension, even  terror.  What  had  I  done?  Why 
had  I,  with  a  word  —  nay,  without  a  word,  with 
merely  a  gesture  and  a  glance  —  thrown  my  whole 
life  into  the  crucible  of  passion?  Why  did  I  exult 
in  the  tremendous  and  impetuous  act,  like  a  martyr, 
and  also  like  a  girl  ?  Was  I  playing  with  my  exist- 
ence as  an  infant  plays  with  a  precious  bibelot 
that  a  careless  touch  may  shatter?  Why  was  I 
so  fiercely,  feverishly,  drunkenly  happy  when  I 
gazed  into  those  e^es? 


136          THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

"I  suppose  I  must  go,"  he  said  disconso- 
lately. 

I  nodded,  and  the  next  instant  the  clock  struck. 

"Yes,"  he  urged  himself,  "I  must  go." 

He  bent  down,  put  his  hands  on  the  arms  of  the 
chair,  and  kissed  me  violently,  twice.  The  fire 
that  consumes  the  world  ran  scorchingly  through  me. 
Every  muscle  was  suddenly  strained  into  tension, 
and  then  fell  slack.  My  face  flushed;  I  let  my  head 
slip  sideways,  so  that  my  left  cheek  was  against  the 
back  of  the  chair.  Through  my  drooping  eyelashes 
I  could  see  the  snake-like  glitter  of  his  eyes  as  he 
stood  over  me.  I  shuddered  and  sighed.  I  was 
like  someone  fighting  in  vain  against  the  sweet 
seduction  of  an  overwhelming  and  fatal  drug.  I 
wanted  to  entreat  him  to  go  away,  to  rid  me  of  the 
exquisite  and  sinister  enchantment.  But  I  could 
not  speak.  I  shut  my  eyes.  This  was  love. 

The  next  moment  I  heard  the  soft  sound  of  his 
feet  on  the  carpet.  I  opened  my  eyes.  He  had 
stepped  back.  When  our  glances  met  he  averted 
his  face,  and  went  briskly  for  his  overcoat,  which 
lay  on  the  floor  by  the  piano.  I  rose,  freed,  re- 
established in  my  self-control.  I  arranged  his 
collar,  straightened  his  necktie  with  a  few  touches, 
picked  up  his  hat,  pushed  back  the  crown,  which 
flew  up  with  a  noise  like  a  small  explosion,  and  gave 
it  into  his  hands. 


THE  AVOWAL  137 

"Thank  you,"  he  said.  "To-morrow  morning, 
eh?  I  shall  get  to  know  everything  necessary 
before  I  come.  And  then  we  will  fix  things  up." 

"Yes,"  I  said. 

"I  can  let  myself  out,"  he  said. 

I  made  a  vague  gesture,  intended  to  signify  that 
I  could  not  think  of  permitting  him  to  let  himself 
out.  We  left  the  drawing-room,  and  passed,  with 
precautions  of  silence,  to  the  front-door,  which  I 
gently  opened. 

"Good-night,  then,"  he  whispered  formally, 
almost  coldly. 

I  nodded.  We  neither  of  us  even  smiled.  We 
were  grave,  stern,  and  stiff  in  our  immense  self- 
consciousness. 

"Too  late  for  the  lift,"  I  murmured  out  there 
with  him  in  the  vast,  glittering  silence  of  the  many- 
angled  staircase,  which  disappeared  above  us 
and  below  us  into  the  mysterious  unseen. 

He  nodded  as  I  had  nodded,  and  began  to  de- 
scend the  broad,  carpeted  steps,  firmly,  carefully, 
and  neither  quick  nor  slow.  I  leaned  over  the 
baluster.  When  the  turns  of  the  staircase  brought 
him  opposite  and  below  me,  he  stopped  and  raised 
his  hat,  and  we.  exchanged  a  smile.  Then  he  reso- 
lutely dropped  his  eyes  and  resumed  the  descent. 
From  time  to  time  I  had  glimpses  of  parts  of  his 
figure  as  he  passed  story  after  story.  Then  I  heard 


138          THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

his  tread  on  the  tessellated  pavement  of  the  main 
hall,  the  distant  clatter  of  double  doors,  and  a  shrill 
cab-whistle. 

This  was  love,  at  last  —  the  reality  of  love! 
He  would  have  killed  himself  had  he  failed  to  win 
me  —  killed  himself!  With  the  novelist's  habit, 
I  ran  off  into  a  series  of  imagined  scenes  —  the  dead 
body,  with  the  hole  in  the  temples  and  the  awkward 
attitude  of  death;  the  discovery,  the  rush  for  the 
police,  the  search  for  a  motive,  the  inquest,  the 
rapid-speaking  coroner,  who  spent  his  whole  life 
at  inquests;  myself,  cold  and  impassive,  giving  evi- 
dence, and  Mary  listening  to  what  I  said.  .  .  . 
But  he  lived,  with  his  delicate  physical  charm,  his 
frail  distinction,  his  spiritual  grace;  and  he  had  won 
me.  The  sense  of  mutual  possession  was  inexpress- 
ibly sweet  to  me.  And  it  was  all  I  had  in  the  world 
now.  When  my  mind  moved  from  that  rock, 
all  else  seemed  shifting,  uncertain,  perilous,  bodeful, 
and  steeped  in  woe.  The  air  was  thick  with  dis- 
asters, and  injustice,  and  strange  griefs  immediately 
I  loosed  my  hold  on  the  immense  fact  that  he  was 
mine. 

"How  calm  I  am!"  I  thought. 

It  was  not  till  I  had  been  in  bed  some  three  hours 
that  I  fully  realized  the  seismic  upheaval  which  my 
soul  had  experienced. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  SITUATION  CHANGED 

I  WOKE  up  from  one  of  those  dozes  which, 
after  a  sleepless  night,  give  the  brief  illusion 
of  complete  rest,  all  my  senses  sharpened, 
and  my  mind  feverishly  active.  And  I  began 
at  once  to  anticipate  Frank's  coming,  and  to 
arrange  my  plans  for  closing  the  flat.  I  had 
determined  that  it  should  be  closed.  Then  someone 
knocked  at  the  door,  and  it  occurred  to  me  that 
there  must  have  been  a  previous  knock,  which  had, 
in  fact,  wakened  me.  Save  on  special  occasions, 
I  was  never  wakened,  and  Emmeline  and  my  maid 
had  injunctions  not  to  come  to  me  until  I  rang. 
My  thoughts  ran  instantly  to  Frank.  He  had 
arrived  thus  early,  merely  because  he  could  not 
keep  away. 

"How  extremely  indiscreet  of  him!"  I  thought. 
"What  detestable  prevarications  with  Emmeline 
this  will  lead  to!  I  cannot  possibly  be  ready  in 
time  if  he  is  to  be  in  and  out  here  all  day." 

Nevertheless,  the  prospect  of  seeing  him  quickly, 
and  the  idea  of  his  splendid  impatience,  drenched 
me  with  joy. 

139 


140  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

"What  is  it?"  I  called  out. 

Emmeline  entered  in  that  terrible  mauve  dress- 
ing-gown which  I  had  been  powerless  to  persuade 
her  to  discard. 

"  So  sorry  to  disturb  you,"  said  Emmeline,  feeling 
her  loose  golden  hair  with  one  hand,  "but  Mrs. 
Ispenlove  has  called,  and  wants  to  see  you  at  once. 
I'm  afraid  something  has  happened." 

11 Mrs.  Ispenlove?" 
,   My  voice  shook. 

"Yes.  Yvonne  came  to  my  room  and  told  me 
that  Mrs.  Ispenlove  was  here,  and  was  either  mad 
or  very  unwell,  and  would  I  go  to  her?  So  I  got 
up  at  once.  What  shall  I  do?  Perhaps  it's  some- 
thing very  serious.  Not  half-past  eight,  and  calling 
like  this!" 

"Let  her  come  in  here  immediately,"  I  said, 
turning  my  head  on  the  pillow,  so  that  Emmeline 
should  not  see  the  blush  which  had  spread  over 
my  face  and  my  neck. 

It  was  inevitable  that  a  terrible  and  desolating 
scene  must  pass  between  Mary  Ispenlove  and 
myself.  I  could  not  foresee  how  I  should  emerge 
from  it,  but  I  desperately  resolved  that  I  would 
suffer  the  worst  without  a  moment's  delay,  and 
that  no  conceivable  appeal  should  induce  me  to 
abandon  Frank.  I  was,  as  I  waited  for  Mrs.  Ispen- 
love to  appear,  nothing  but  an  embodied  and 


THE  SITUATION  CHANGED          141 

fierce  instinct  to  guard  what  I  had  won.  No  con- 
sideration of  mercy  could  have  touched  me. 

She  entered  with  a  strange,  hysterical  cry: 

"Carlotta!" 

I  had  asked  her  long  ago  to  use  my  Christian 
name  —  long  before  I  ever  imagined  what  would 
come  to  pass  between  her  husband  and  me;  but 
I  always  called  her  Mrs.  Ispenlove.  The  difference 
in  our  ages  justified  this.  And  that  morning  the 
difference  seemed  to  be  increased.  I  realized, 
with  a  cruel  justice  of  perception  quite  new  in 
my  estimate  of  her,  that  she  was  old  —  an  old  wo- 
man. She  had  never  been  beautiful,  but  she  was 
tall  and  graceful,  and  her  face  had  been  attractive 
by  the  sweetness  of  the  mouth  and  the  gray  benefi- 
cence of  the  eyes;  and  now  that  sweetness  and  that 
beneficence  appeared  suddenly  to  have  been  swal- 
lowed up  in  the  fatal  despair  of  a  woman  who  dis- 
covers that  she  has  lived  too  long.  Gray  hair, 
wrinkles,  crow's-feet,  tired  eyes,  drawn  mouth,  and 
the  terrible  tell-tale  hollow  under  the  chin  —  these 
were  what  I  saw  in  Mary  Ispenlove.  She  had  learnt 
that  the  only  thing  worth  having  in  life  is  youth. 
I  possessed  everything  that  she  lacked.  Surely 
the  struggle  was  unequal.  Fate  might  have. chosen 
a  less  piteous  victim.  I  felt  profoundly  sorry  for 
Mary  Ispenlove,  and  this  sorrow  was  stronger  in 
me  even  than  the  uneasiness,  the  false  shame  (for 


I42  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

it  was  not  a  real  shame),  which  I  experienced  in  her 
presence.  I  put  out  my  hands  towards  her,  as 
it  were,  involuntarily.  She  sprang  to  me,  took 
them,  and  kissed  me  as  I  lay  in  bed. 

"How  beautiful  you  look  —  like  that!"  she  ex- 
claimed wildly,  and  with  a  hopeless  and  acute  envy 
in  her  tone. 

"But  why "  I  began  to  protest,  astounded. 

"What  will  you  think  of  me,  disturbing  you  like 
this?  What  will  you  think?"  she  moaned.  And 
then  her  voice  rose:  "I  could  not  help  it;  I  couldn't, 
really.  Oh,  Carlotta!  you  are  my  friend,  aren't  you  ?" 

One  thing  grew  swiftly  clear  to  me:  that  she  was 
as  yet  perfectly  unaware  of  the  relations  between 
Frank  and  myself.  My  brain  searched  hurriedly 
for  an  explanation  of  the  visit.  I  was  conscious 
of  an  extraordinary  relief. 

"You  are  my  friend,  aren't  you?"  she  repeated 
insistently. 

Her  tears  were  dropping  on  my  bosom.  But 
could  I  answer  that  I  was  her  friend?  I  did  not 
wish  to  be  her  enemy;  she  and  Frank  and  I  were 
dolls  in  the  great  hands  of  fate,  irresponsible, 
guiltless,  meet  for  an  understanding  sympathy. 
Why  was  I  not  still  her  friend?  Did  not  my  heart 
bleed  for  her?  Yet  such  is  the  power  of  convention 
over  honourableness  that  I  could  not  bring  myself 
to  reply  directly,  "Yes,  I  am  your  friend." 


THE  SITUATION  CHANGED          143 

"We  have  known  each  other  a  long  time,"  I 
ventured. 

"There  was  no  one  else  I  could  come  to,"  she  said. 

Her  whole  frame  was  shaking.  I  sat  up,  and  asked 
her  to  pass  my  dressing-gown,  which  I  put  round 
my  shoulders.  Then  I  rang  the  bell. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  she  demanded 
fearfully. 

"I  am  going  to  have  the  gas-stove  lighted  and 
some  tea  brought  in,  and  then  we  will  talk.  Take 
your  hat  off,  dear,  and  sit  down  in  that  chair.  You'll 
be  more  yourself  after  a  cup  of  tea." 

How  young  I  was  then!  I  remember  my  nai've 
satisfaction  in  this  exhibition  of  tact.  I  was  young 
and  hard,  as  youth  is  apt  to  be  —  hard  in  spite  of 
the  compassion,  too  intellectual  and  arrogant, 
which  I  conceived  for  her.  And  even  while  I  for- 
bade her  to  talk  until  she  had  drunk  some  tea,  I 
regretted  the  delay,  and  I  suffered  by  it.  Surely, 
I  thought,  she  will  read  in  my  demeanour  something 
which  she  ought  ^not  to  read  there.  But  she  did 
not.  She  was  one  of  the  simplest  of  women.  In 
ten  thousand  women  one  is  born  without  either 
claws  or  second-sight.  She  was  that  one,  defence- 
less as  a  rabbit. 

"You  are  very  kind  to  me,"  she  said,  putting 
her  cup  on  the  mantelpiece  with  a  nervous  rattle; 
"and  I  need  it." 


144  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

"Tell  me,"  I  murmured.  "Tell  me  — what  I 
can  do." 

I  had  remained  in  bed;  she  was  by  the  fire-place. 
A  distance  between  us  seemed  necessary. 

"You  can't  do  anything,  my  dear,"  she  said. 
"Only  I  was  obliged  to  talk  to  someone,  after  all 
the  night.  It's  about  Frank." 

"Mr.  Ispenlove!"  I  ejaculated,  acting  as  well  as 
I  could,  but  not  very  well. 

"Yes.     He  has  left  me." 

"  But  why  ?     What  is  the  matter  ?" 

Even  to  recall  my  share  in  this  interview  with 
Mary  Ispenlove  humiliates  me.  But  perhaps  I 
have  learned  the  value  of  humiliation.  Still, 
could  I  have  behaved  differently? 

"You  won't  understand  unless  I  begin  a  long 
time  ago,"  said  Mary  Ispenlove.  "Carlotta,  my 
married  life  has  been  awful  —  awful  —  a  tragedy. 
It  has  been  a  tragedy  both  for  him  and  for  me. 
But  no  one  has  suspected  it;  we  have  hidden  it." 

I  nodded.     I,  however,  had  suspected  it. 

"It's  just  twenty  years  —  yes,  twenty  —  since  I 
fell  in  love,"  she  proceeded,  gazing  at  me  with 
her  soft,  moist  eyes. 

"With  —  Frank,"  I  assumed.     I  lay  back  in  bed. 

"No,"  she  said.  "With  another  man.  That 
was  in  Brixton,  when  I  was  a  girl  living  with  my 
father;  my  mother  was  dead.  He  was  a  barrister  — 


THE  SITUATION  CHANGED          145 

I  mean  the  man  I  was  in  love  with.  He  had 
only  just  been  called  to  the  Bar.  I  think  everybody 
knew  that  I  had  fallen  in  love  with  him.  Certainly 
he  did;  he  could  not  help  seeing  it.  I  could  not 
conceal  it.  Of  course  I  can  understand  now  that  it 
flattered  him.  Naturally  it  did.  Any  man  is 
flattered  when  a  woman  falls  in  love  with  him. 
And  my  father  was  rich,  and  so  on,  and  so  on. 
We  saw  each  other  a  lot.  I  hoped,  and  I  kept  on 
hoping.  Some  people  even  said  it  was  a  match,  and 
that  I  was  throwing  myself  away.  Fancy  — 
throwing  myself  away  —  me!  —  who  have  never 
been  good  for  anything!  «*'ty  iauief  diet  not  care 
much  for  the  man;  saia  he  was  selfish  and  grasping. 
Possibly  he  was;  but  I  was  in  love  with  him  all  the 
same.  Then  I  met  Frank,  and  Frank  fell  in  love 
with  me.  You  know  how  obstinate  Frank  is  when 
he  has  once  set  his  mind  on  a  thing.  Frank  deter- 
mined to  have  me;  and  my  father  was  on  his  side.  I 
would  not  listen.  I  didn't  give  him  so  much  as 
a  chance  to  propose  to  me.  And  this  state  of 
things  lasted  for  quite  a  long  time.  It  wasn't  my 
fault;  it  wasn't  anybody's  fault." 

"Just  so,"  I  agreed,  raising  my  head  on  one 
elbow,  and  listening  intently.  It  was  the  first 
sincere  word  I  had  spoken,  and  I  was  glad  to  utter  it. 

"The  man  I  had  fallen  in  love  with  came  nearer. 
He  was  decidedly  tempted.  I  began  to  feel  sure 


146  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

of  him.  All  I  wanted  was  to  marry  him,  whether 
he  loved  me  a  great  deal  or  only  a  little  tiny  bit. 
I  was  in  that  state.  Then  he  drew  away.  He 
scarcely  ever  came  to  the  house,  and  I  seemed  never 
to  be  able  to  meet  him.  And  then  one  day  my  father 
showed  me  something  in  the  Morning  Post.  It 
was  a  paragraph  saying  that  the  man  I  was  in  love 
with  was  going  to  marry  a  woman  of  title,  a  widow 
and  the  daughter  of  a  peer.  I  soon  found  out  she 
was  nearly  twice  his  age.  He  had  done  it  to  get  on. 
He  was  getting  on  very  well  by  himself,  but  I  suppose 
that  wasn't  fast  enough  for  him.  Carlotta,  it 
nearly  killed  me.  And  I  felt  so  sorry  for  him. 
You  can't  guess  how  sorry  I  felt  for  him.  I  felt 
that  he  didn't  know  what  he  had  missed.  Oh, 
how  happy  I  should  have  made  him!  I  should 
have  lived  for  him.  I  should  have  done  everything 
for  him.  I  should  have.  .  .  You  don't  mind 
me  telling  you  all  this?" 

I  made  an  imploring  gesture. 

"What  a  shame!"  I  burst  out. 

"Ah,  my  dear!"  she  said,  "he  didn't  love  me. 
One  can't  blame  him." 

"And  then?"  I  questioned,  with  an  eagerness 
that  I  tried  to  overcome. 

"Frank  was  so  persevering.  And  —  and  —  I 
did  admire  his  character.  A  woman  couldn't  help 
admiring  his  character,  could  she?  And,  besides, 


THE  SITUATION  CHANGED          147 

I  honestly  thought  I  had  got  over  the  other  affair, 
and  that  I  was  in  love  with  him.  I  refused  him 
once,  and  then  I  married  him.  He  was  as  mad 
for  me  as  I  had  been  for  the  other  one.  Yes,  I 
married  him,  and  we  both  imagined  we  were  going 
to  be  happy." 

"And  why  haven't  you  been?"  I  asked. 

"This  is  my  shame,"  she  said.  "I  could  not 
forget  the  other  one.  We  soon  found  that  out." 

"Did  you  talk  about  it,  you  —  and  Frank?"  I 
put  in,  amazed. 

"Oh,  wo/"  she  said.  "It  was  never  mentioned  — 
never  once  during  fifteen  years.  But  he  knew; 
and  I  knew  that  he  knew.  The  other  one  was 
always  between  us  —  always,  always,  always!  The 
other  one  was  always  in  my  heart.  We  did  our 
best,  for  both  of  us;  but  it  was  useless.  The  passion 
of  my  life  was  —  it  was  invincible.  I  tried  to 
love  Frank.  I  could  only  like  him.  Fancy  his 
position!  And  we  were  helpless.  Because,  you 
know,  Frank  and  I  are  not  the  sort  of  people  that 
go  and  make  a  scandal  —  at  least,  that  was  what  I 
thought,"  she  sighed.  "I  know  different  now. 
Well,  he  died  the  day  before  yesterday." 

"Who?" 

"Crettell.  He  had  just  been  made  a  judge. 
He  was  the  youngest  judge  on  the  bench  —  only 
forty-six." 


148  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

"Was  that  the  man?"  I  exclaimed;  for  Crettell's 
character  was  well  known  in  London. 

"That  was  the  man.  Frank  came  in  yesterday 
afternoon,  and  after  he  had  glanced  at  the  paper, 
he  said:  'By  the  way,  Crettell's  dead.'  I  did  not 
grasp  it  at  first.  He  repeated :  'Crettell  —  he's 
dead.'  I  burst  into  tears.  I  couldn't  help  it.  And, 
besides,  I  forgot.  Frank  asked  me  very  roughly 
what  I  was  crying  for.  You  know,  Frank  has 
much  changed  these  last  few  months.  He  is  not 
as  nice  as  he  used  to  be.  Excuse  my  talking  like 
this,  my  dear.  Something  must  be  worrying  him. 
Well,  I  said  as  well  as  I  could  while  I  was  crying 
that  the  news  was  a  shock  to  me.  I  tried  to  stop 
crying,  but  I  couldn't.  I  sobbed.  Frank  threw 
down  the  paper  and  stamped  on  it,  and  he  swore. 
He  said:  'I  know  you've  always  been  in  love  with 
the  brute,  but  you  needn't  make  such  a  damn  fuss 
about  it.'  Oh,  my  dear,  how  can  I  tell  you  these 
things?  That  angered  me.  This  was  the  first  time 
in  our  married  life  that  Crettell  had  been  even  re- 
ferred to,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  Frank  put  all  the 
hatred  of  fifteen  years  into  that  single  sentence. 
Why  was  I  angry?  I  didn't  know.  We  had  a 
scene.  Frank  lost  his  temper,  for  the  first  time 
that  I  remember,  and  then  he  recovered  it.  He 
said  quietly  he  couldn't  stand  living  with  me  any 
more,  and  that  he  had  long  since  wanted  to  leave 


THE  SITUATION  CHANGED          149 

me.  He  said  he  would  never  see  me  again.  And 
then  one  of  the  servants  came  in,  and " 

"What?" 

"Nothing.  I  sent  her  out.  And  —  and  — 
Frank  didn't  come  home  last  night." 

There  was  a  silence.  I  could  find  nothing  to 
say,  and  Mary  had  hidden  her  face.  I  utterly 
forgot  myself  and  my  own  state  in  this  extraordi- 
nary hazard  of  matrimony.  I  could  only  think  of 
Mary's  grief  —  a  grief  which,  nevertheless,  I  did  not 
too  well  comprehend. 

"Then  you  love  your  husband  now?"  I  ventured 
at  length. 

She  made  no  reply. 

"You  love  him  —  is  that  so?"  I  pursued.  "Tell 
me  honestly." 

I  spoke  as  gently  as  it  was  in  me  to  speak. 

"Honestly!"  she  cried,  looking  up.  "Honestly! 
No!  If  I  loved  him,  could  I  have  been  so  upset 
about  Crettell?  But  we  have  been  together  so 
long.  We  are  husband  and  wife,  Carlotta.  We 
are  so  used  to  each  other.  And  generally  he  is  so 
good.  We've  got  on  very  well,  considering.  And 
now  he's  left  me.  Think  of  the  scandal!  It  will 
be  terrible!  terrible!  A  separation  at  my  age! 
Carlotta,  it's  unthinkable!  He's  mad  —  that's 
the  only  explanation.  Haven't  I  tried  to  be  a  good 
wife  to  him?  He's  never  found  fault  with  me  — 


1 50  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

never!  And  I'm  sure,  as  regards  him,  I've  had 
nothing  to  complain  of." 

"He  will  come  back,"  I  said.  "He'll  think 
things  over  and  see  reason." 

And  it  was  just  as  though  I  heard  some  other 
person  saying  these  words. 

"But  he  didn't  come  home  last  night,"  Mary 
insisted.  "What  the  servants  are  thinking  I 
shouldn't  like  to  guess." 

"What  does  it  matter  what  the  servants  think?" 
I  said  brusquely. 

"But  it  does  matter.  He  didn't  come  home. 
He  must  have  slept  at  a  hotel.  Fancy,  sleeping 
at  a  hotel,  and  his  home  waiting  for  him!  Oh, 
Carlotta,  you're  too  young  to  understand  what  I 
feel!  You're  very  clever,  and  you're  very  sympa- 
thetic; but  you  can't  see  things  as  I  see  them. 
Wait  till  you've  been  married  fifteen  years.  The 
scandal!  The  shame!  And  me  only  too  anxious 
to  be  a  good  wife,  and  to  keep  our  home  as  it  should 
be,  and  to  help  him  as  much  as  I  can  with  my 
stupid  brains  in  his  business!" 

"I  can  understand  perfectly,"  I  asserted.  "I 
can  understand  perfectly." 

And  I  could.  The  futility  of  arguing  with 
Mary,  of  attempting  to  free  her  ever  so  little  from 
the  coils  of  convention  which  had  always  bound 
her,  was  only  too  plainly  apparent.  She  was  —  and 


THE  SITUATION  CHANGED          151 

naturally,  sincerely,  instinctively  —  the  very  incar- 
nation and  mouthpiece  of  the  conventionality  of 
society,  as  she  cowered  there  in  her  grief  and  her 
quiet  resentment.  But  this  did  not  impair  the 
authenticity  of  her  grief  and  her  resentment.  Her 
grief  appealed  to  me  powerfully,  and  her  resentment, 
almost  angelic  in  its  quality,  seemed  sufficiently 
justified.  I  knew  that  my  own  position  was  in  prac- 
tice untenable,  that  logic  must  always  be  inferior 
to  emotion.  I  am  intensely  proud  of  my  ability 
to  see,  then,  that  no  sentiment  can  be  false  which 
is  sincere,  and  that  Mary  Ispenlove's  attitude 
towards  marriage  was  exactly  as  natural,  exactly 
as  free  from  artificiality,  as  my  own.  Can  you  go 
outside  Nature?  Is  not  the  polity  of  Londoners  in 
London  as  much  a  part  of  Nature  as  the  polity  of 
bees  in  a  hive? 

"Not  a  word  for  fifteen  years,  and  then  an  ex- 
plosion like  that!"  she  murmured,  incessantly 
recurring  to  the  core  of  her  grievance.  "I  did 
wrong  to  marry  him,  I  know.  But  I  did  marry  him 
—  I  did  marry  him!  We  are  husband  and  wife. 
And  he  goes  off  and  sleeps  at  a  hotel!  Carlotta, 
I  wish  I  had  never  been  born!  What  will  people 
say?  I  shall  never  be  able  to  look  anyone  in  the 
face  again." 

"He  will  come  back,"  I  said  again. 

"Do  you  think  so?" 


1 52          THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

This  time  she  caught  at  the  straw. 

"Yes,"  I  said.  "And  you  will  settle  down  gradu- 
ally; and  everything  will  be  forgotten." 

I  said  that  because  it  was  the  one  thing  I  could 
say.  I  repeat  that  I  had  ceased  to  think  of  my- 
self. I  had  become  a  spectator. 

"It  can  never  be  the  same  between  us  again," 
Mary  breathed  sadly. 

At  that  moment  Emmeline  Palmer  plunged, 
rather  than  came,  into  my  bedroom. 

"Oh,  Miss  Peel "  she  began,  and  then  stopped, 

seeing  Mrs.  Ispenlove  by  the  fire-place,  though 
she  knew  that  Mrs.  Ispenlove  was  with  me. 

"Anything  wrong?"  I  asked,  affecting  a  complete 
calm. 

It  was  evident  that  the  good  creature  had  lost 
her  head,  as  she  sometimes  did,  when  I  gave  her 
too  much  manuscript  to  copy,  or  when  the  unusual 
occurred  in  no  matter  what  form.  The  excellent 
Emmeline  was  one  of  my  mistakes. 

"Mr.  Ispenlove  is  here,"  she  whispered. 

None  of  us  spoke  for  a  few  seconds.  Mary 
Ispenlove  stared  at  me,  but  whether  in  terror  or 
astonishment,  I  could  not  guess.  This  was  one 
of  the  most  dramatic  moments  of  my  life. 

"Tell  Mr.  Ispenlove  that  I  can  see  nobody," 
I  said,  glancing  at  the  wall. 

She  turned  to  go. 


THE  SITUATION  CHANGED          153 

"And,  Emmeline,"  I  stopped  her.  "Do  not 
tell  him  anything  else." 

Surely  the  fact  that  Frank  had  called  to  see  me 
before  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning,  surely  my 
uneasy  demeanour,  must  at  length  arouse  suspicion 
even  in  the  simple,  trusting  mind  of  his  wife! 

"How  does  he  know  that  I  am  here?"  Mary 
asked,  lowering  her  voice,  when  Emmeline  had 
shut  the  door;  "I  said  nothing  to  the  servants." 

I  was  saved.  Her  own  explanation  of  his  coming 
was,  of  course,  the  most  natural  in  the  world.  I 
seized  on  it. 

"Never  mind  how,"  I  answered.  "Perhaps  he 
was  watching  outside  your  house,  and  followed 
you.  The  important  thing  is  that  he  has  come. 
It  proves,"  I  went  on,  inventing  rapidly,  "that  he 
has  changed  his  mind  and  recognizes  his  mistake. 
Had  you  not  better  go  back  home  as  quickly  as 
you  can?  It  would  have  been  rather  awkward 
for  you  to  see  him  here,  wouldn't  it?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  said,  her  eyes  softening  and 
gleaming  with  joy.  "I  will  go.  Oh,  Carlotta! 
how  can  I  thank  you?  You  are  my  best  friend." 

"I  have  done  nothing,"  I  protested.     But  I  had. 

"You  are  a  dear!"  she  exclaimed,  coming  im- 
pulsively to  the  bed. 

I  sat  up.   She  kissed  me  fervently.   I  rang  the  bell. 

"Has  Mr.  Ispenlove  gone?"  I  asked  Emmeline. 


i54  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

"Yes,"  said  Emmeline. 

In  another  minute  his  wife,  too,  had  departed, 
timorously  optimistic,  already  denying  in  her  heart 
that  it  could  never  be  the  same  between  them  again. 
She  assuredly  would  not  find  Frank  at  home.  But 
that  was  nothing.  I  had  escaped!  I  had  escaped! 

"Will  you  mind  getting  dressed  at  once?"  I  said 
to  Emmeline.  "I  should  like  you  to  go  out  with  a 
letter  and  a  manuscript  as  soon  as  possible." 

I  got  a  notebook  and  began  to  write  to  Frank. 
I  told  him  all  that  had  happened,  in  full  detail, 
writing  hurriedly,  in  gusts,  and  abandoning  that 
regard  for  literary  form  which  the  professional 
author  is  apt  to  preserve  even  in  his  least  formal 
correspondence. 

"After  this,"  I  said,  "we  must  give  up  what  we 
decided  last  night.  I  have  no  good  reason  to 
offer  you.  The  situation  itself  has  not  been  changed 
by  what  I  have  learnt  from  your  wife.  I  have  not 
even  discovered  that  she  loves  you,  though  in  spite 
of  what  she  says,  which  I  have  faithfully  told  you, 
I  fancy  she  does  —  at  any  rate,  I  think  she  is  begin- 
ning to.  My  ideas  about  the  rights  of  love  are  not 
changed.  My  feelings  towards  you  are  not  changed. 
Nothing  is  changed.  But  she  and  I  have  been 
through  that  interview,  and  so,  after  all,  every- 
thing is  changed;  we  must  give  it  all  up.  You  will 
say  I  am  illogical.  I  am  —  perhaps.  It  was  a 


THE  SITUATION  CHANGED          155 

mere  chance  that  your  wife  came  to  me.  I  don't 
know  why  she  did.  If  she  had  not  come,  I  should 
have  given  myself  to  you.  Supposing  she  had 
written  —  I  should  still  have  given  myself  to  you. 
But  I  have  been  in  her  presence.  I  have  been  with 
her.  And  then  the  thought  that  you  struck  her, 
for  my  sake!  She  said  nothing  about  that.  That 
was  the  one  thing  she  concealed.  I  could  have 
cried  when  she  passed  it  over.  After  all,  I  don't 
know  whether  it  is  sympathy  for  your  wife  that 
makes  me  change,  or  my  self-respect  —  say  my  self- 
pride;  I'm  a  proud  woman.  I  lied  to  her  through 
all  that  interview. 

"Oh,  if  I  only  had  the  courage  to  begin  by  telling 
her  outright  and  bluntly  that  you  and  I  had  settled 
that  I  should  take  her  place!  That  would  have 
stopped  her.  But  I  hadn't.  And,  besides,  how 
could  I  foresee  what  she  would  say  to  me  and  how 
she  would  affect  me?  No;  I  lied  to  her  at  every 
point.  My  whole  attitude  was  a  lie.  Supposing 
you  and  I  had  gone  off  together  before  I  had  seen 
her,  and  then  I  had  met  her  afterwards,  I  could 
have  looked  her  in  the  face  —  sorrowfully,  with  a 
heart  bleeding  —  but  I  could  have  looked  her  in 
the  face.  But  after  this  interview  —  no;  it  would 
be  impossible  for  me  to  face  her  with  you  at  my 
side!  Don't  I  put  things  crudely,  horribly!  I 
know  everything  that  you  will  say.  You  could  not 


156  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

bring  a  single  argument  that  I  have  not  thought  of. 

"However,  arguments  are  nothing.  It  is  how 
I  feel.  Fate  is  against  us.  Possibly  I  have  ruined 
your  life  and  mine  without  having  done  anything 
to  improve  hers;  and  possibly  I  have  saved  us  all 
three  from  terrible  misery.  Possibly  fate  is  with  us. 
No  one  can  say.  I  don't  know  what  will  happen 
in  the  immediate  future;  I  won't  think  about  it. 
If  you  do  as  I  wish,  if  you  have  any  desire  to  show 
me  that  I  have  any  influence  over  you,  you  will  go 
back  to  live  with  your  wife.  Where  did  you  sleep 
last  night?  Or  did  you  walk  the  streets?  You 
must  not  answer  this  letter  at  present.  Write  to  me 
later.  Do  not  try  to  see  me.  I  won't  see  you. 
We  mustn't  meet.  I  am  going  away  at  once.  I 
don't  think  I  could  stand  another  scene  with  your 
wife,  and  she  would  be  sure  to  come  again  to  me. 

"Try  to  resume  your  old  existence.  You  can 
do  it  if  you  try.  Remember  that  your  wife  is 
no  more  to  blame  than  you  are,  or  than  I  am.  Re- 
member that  you  loved  her  once.  And  remember 
that  I  act  as  I  am  acting  because  there  is  no  other 
way  for  me.  C'est  plus  fort  que  moi.  I  am. going 
to  Torquay.  I  let  you  know  this  —  I  hate  conceal- 
ment; and  anyway  you  would  find  out.  But  I  shall 
trust  you  not  to  follow  me.  I  shall  trust  you.  You 
are  saying  that  this  is  a  very  different  woman  from 
last  night.  It  is.  I  haven't  yet  realized  what  my 


THE  SITUATION  CHANGED          157 

feelings  are.  I  expect  I  shall  realize  them  in  a 
few  days.  I  send  with  this  a  manuscript.  It  is 
nothing.  I  send  it  merely  to  put  Emmeline  off  the 
scent,  so  that  she  shall  think  that  it  is  purely 
business.  Now  I  shall  trust  you. —  C.  P." 

I  commenced  the  letter  without  even  a  "Dear 
Frank,"  and  I  ended  it  without  an  affectionate 
word. 

"I  should  like  you  to  take  these  down  to  Mr. 
Ispenlove's  office,"  I  said  to  Emmeline.  "Ask 
for  him  and  give  them  to  him  yourself.  There's 
no  answer.  He's  pretty  sure  to  be  in.  But  if  he 
isn't,  bring  them  back.  I'm  going  to  Torquay  by 
that  eleven-thirty  express  —  isn't  it?" 

"Eleven-thirty-five,"  Emmeline  corrected  me 
coldly. 

When  she  returned,  she  said  she  had  seen  Mr. 
Ispenlove  and  given  him  the  letter  and  the  parcel. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE    HAZARD    OF    DESTINY 

I  HAD  acquaintances  in  Torquay,  but  I  soon 
discovered  that  the  place  was  impossible  for 
me.  Torquay  is  the  chosen  home  of  the  pro- 
prieties, the  respectabilities,  and  all  the  conventions. 
Nothing  could  dislodge  them  from  its  beautiful 
hills;  the  very  sea,  as  it  beats  primly,  or  with  a 
violence  that  never  forgets  to  be  discreet,  on  the 
indented  shore,  acknowledges  their  sway.  Aphro- 
dite never  visits  there;  the  human  race  is  not  con- 
tinued there.  People  who  have  always  lived  with- 
in the  conventions  go  there  to  die  within  the  con- 
ventions. The  young  do  not  flourish  there;  they 
escape  from  the  soft  enervation.  Since  everybody 
is  rich,  there  are  no  poor.  There  are  only  the  rich, 
and  the  servitors,  who  get  rich.  These  two  classes 
never  mix  —  even  in  the  most  modest  villas  they 
live  on  opposite  sides  of  the  house.  The  life  of 
the  town  is  a  vast  conspiracy  on  the  part  of  the 
servitors  to  guard  against  any  danger  of  the  rich 
taking  all  their  riches  to  heaven.  You  can,  if 
you  are  keen  enough,  detect  portions  of  this  con- 
spiracy in  every  shop.  On  the  hills  each  abode 
.  158 


THE  HAZARD  OF  DESTINY  159 

stands  in  its  own  undulating  grounds,  is  approached 
by  a  winding  drive  of  at  least  ten  yards,  is  wrapped 
about  by  the  silence  of  elms,  is  flanked  by  green- 
houses, and  exudes  an  immaculate  propriety  from 
all  its  windows.  In  the  morning  the  rich  descend, 
the  servitors  ascend;  the  bosky  and  perfectly- 
kept  streets  on  the  hills  are  trodden  with  apologetic 
celerity  by  the  emissaries  of  the  servitors.  The 
one  interminable  thoroughfare  of  the  town  is  gra- 
ciously invaded  by  the  rich,  who,  if  they  have  not 
walked  down  for  the  sake  of  exercise,  step  cautiously 
from  their  carriages,  enunciate  a  string  of  orders 
ending  with  the  name  of  a  house,  and  cautiously 
regain  their  carriages.  Each  house  has  a  name, 
and  the  pride  of  the  true  servitor  is  his  ability  to 
deduce  instantly  from  the  name  of  the  house  the 
name  of  its  owner  and  the  name  of  its  street.  In 
the  afternoon  a  vast  and  complicated  game  of  visit- 
ing cards  is  played.  One  does  not  begin  to  be  serious 
till  the  evening;  one  eats  then,  solemnly  and  fully, 
to  the  faint  accompaniment  of  appropriate  con- 
versation. And  there  is  no  relief,  no  surcease 
from  utmost  conventionality.  It  goes  on  night 
and  day;  it  hushes  one  to  sleep,  and  wakes  one 
up.  On  all  but  the  strongest  minds  it  casts  a 
narcotizing  spell,  so  that  thought  is  arrested,  and 
originality,  vivacity,  individuality  become  a  crime 
—  a  shame  that  must  be  hidden.  Into  this 


i6o  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

strange  organism  I  took  my  wounded  heart,  im- 
agining that  an  environment  of  coma  might  help 
to  heal  it.  But  no!  Within  a  week  my  state 
had  become  such  that  I  could  have  cried  out  in 
mid  Union  Street  at  noon:  "Look  at  me  with  your 
dead  eyes,  you  dead  who  have  omitted  to  get 
buried,  I  am  among  you,  and  I  am  an  adulteress 
in  spirit!  And  my  body  has  sinned  the  sin!  And 
I  am  alive  as  only  grief  can  be  alive.  I  suffer  the 
torture  of  vultures,  but  I  would  not  exchange  my 
lot  with  yours!" 

And  one  morning,  after  a  fortnight,  I  thought 
of  Monte  Carlo.  And  the  vision  of  that  place, 
which  I  had  never  seen,  too  voluptuously  lovely 
to  be  really  beautiful,  where  there  are  no  com- 
mandments, where  unconventionality  and  conven- 
tionality fight  it  out  on  even  terms,  where  the 
adulteress  swarms,  and  the  sin  is  forever  sinned, 
and  wounded  hearts  go  about  gaily,  where  it  is 
impossible  to  distinguish  between  virtue  and  vice, 
and  where  Toleration  in  fine  clothes  is  the  supreme 
social  goddess  —  the  vision  of  Monte  Carlo,  as 
a  place  of  refuge  from  the  exacerbating  and  mori- 
bund and  yet  eternal  demureness  of  Torquay, 
appealed  to  me  so  persuasively  that  I  was  on  my 
way  to  the  Riviera  in  two  hours.  In  that  crisis  of 
my  life  my  moods  were  excessively  capricious.  Let 
me  say  that  I  had  not  reached  Exeter  before  I 


THE  HAZARD  OF  DESTINY          161 

began  to  think  kindly  of  Torquay.  What  was 
Torquay  but  an  almost  sublime  example  of  what 
the  human  soul  can  accomplish  in  its  unending 
quest  of  an  ideal? 

I  left  England  on  a  calm,  slate-coloured  sea  — 
a  sea  that  more  than  any  other  sort  of  sea  pro- 
duces the  reflective  melancholy  which  makes  won- 
derful the  faces  of  fishermen.  How  that  brief 
voyage  symbolized  for  me  the  mysterious  movement 
of  humanity!  We  converged  from  the  four  quarters 
of  the  universe,  passed  together  an  hour,  helpless, 
in  somewhat  inimical  curiosity  concerning  each 
other,  and  then,  mutually  forgotten,  took  wing, 
and  spread  out  into  the  unknown.  I  think  that  as 
I  stood  near  the  hot  funnel,  breasting  the  wind, 
and  vacantly  staring  at  the  smooth  expanse  that 
continually  slipped  from  under  us,  I  understood 
myself  better  than  I  had  done  before.  My  soul 
was  at  peace  —  the  peace  of  ruin  after  a  confla- 
gration, but  peace.  Sometimes  a  little  flame  would 
dart  out  —  flame  of  regret,  revolt,  desire  —  and 
I  would  ruthlessly  extinguish  it.  I  felt  that  I  had 
nothing  to  live  for,  that  no  energy  remained  to  me, 
no  interest,  no  hope.  I  saw  the  forty  years  of 
probable  existence  in  front  of  me  flat 'and  sterile 
as  the  sea  itself.  I  was  coldly  glad  that  I  had 
finished  my  novel,  well  knowing  that  it  would  be 
my  last.  And  the  immense  disaster  had  been  caused 


162  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

by  a  chance!  Why  had  I  been  born  with  a  vein 
of  overweening  honesty  in  me  ?  Why  should  I  have 
sacrificed  everything  to  the  pride  of  my  conscience, 
seeing  that  consciences  were  the  product  of  education 
merely  ?  Useless  to  try  to  answer  the  unanswerable ! 
What  is,  is.  And  circumstances  are  always  at  the 
mercy  of  character.  I  might  have  been  wrong, 
I  might  have  been  right;  no  ethical  argument  could 
have  bent  my  instinct.  I  did  not  sympathize  with 
myself  —  I  was  too  proud  and  stern  —  but  I  sym- 
pathized with  Frank.  I  wished  ardently  that  he 
might  be  consoled  —  that  his  agony  might  not  be 
too  terrible.  I  wondered  where  he  was,  what  he 
was  doing.  I  had  received  no  letter  from  him, 
but  then  I  had  instructed  that  letters  should  not 
be  forwarded  to  me.  My  compassion  went  out 
after  him,  followed  him  into  the  dark,  found  him 
(as  I  hoped),  and  surrounded  him  like  an  alleviat- 
ing influence.  I  thought  pityingly  of  the  ravage 
that  had  been  occasioned  by  our  love.  His  home 
was  wrecked.  Our  lives  were  equally  wrecked. 
Our  friends  were  grieved;  they  would  think  sadly 
of  my  closed  flat.  Even  the  seriocomic  figure  of 
Emmeline  touched  me;  I  had  paid  her  three  months' 
wages  and  dismissed  her.  Where  would  she  go 
with  her  mauve  peignoir!  She  was  over  thirty, 
and  would  not  easily  fall  into  another  such  situation. 
Imagine  Emmeline  struck  down  by  a  splinter  from 


THE  HAZARD  OF  DESTINY          163 

our  passionate  explosion!     Only  Yvonne  was  con- 
tent at  the  prospect  of  revisiting  France. 

"Ah!  Qu'on  est  bien  id,  madame!"  she  said, 
when  we  had  fixed  ourselves  in  the  long  and  glit- 
tering train  de  grand  luxe  that  awaited  us  at  Calais. 
Once  I  had  enjoyed  luxury,  but  now  the  futility 
of  all  this  luxurious  cushioned  arrogance,  which 
at  its  best  only  corresponded  with  a  railway  direc- 
tor's dreams  of  paradise,  seemed  to  me  pathetic. 
Could  it  detain  youth,  which  is  for  ever  flying? 
Could  it  keep  out  sorrow?  Could  it  breed  hope? 
As  the  passengers,  so  correct  in  their  travelling 
costumes,  passed  to  and  fro  in  the  corridors  with 
the  subdued  murmurs  always  adopted  by  English 
people  when  they  wish  to  prove  that  they  are  not 
excited,  I  thought:  "Does  it  matter  how  you  and 
I  go  southwards?  The  pride  of  the  eye,  and  of 
the  palate,  and  of  the  limbs  —  what  can  it  help  us 
that  this  should  be  sated?  We  cannot  leave  our 
souls  behind."  The  history  of  many  of  these  men 
and  women  was  written  on  their  faces.  I  wondered 
if  my  history  was  written  on  mine,  gazing  into  the 
mirrors  which  were  everywhere,  but  seeing  nothing 
save  that  which  I  had  always  seen.  Then  I  smiled, 
and  Yvonne  smiled  respectfully  in  response.  Was 
I  not  part  of  the  immense  pretence  that  riches 
bring  joy  and  that  life  is  good?  On  every  table 
in  the  restaurant-cars  were  bunches  of  fresh  flowers 


164  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

that  had  been  torn  from  the  South,  and  would 
return  there  dead,  having  ministered  to  the  illusion 
that  riches  bring  joy  and  that  life  is  good.  I  hated 
that.  I  could  almost  have  wished  that  I  was 
travelling  southwards  in  a  slow,  slow  train,  third 
class,  where  sorrow  at  any  rate  does  not  wear  a 
mask.  Great  grief  is  democratic,  levelling  —  not 
downwards  but  upwards.  It  strips  away  the  in- 
essential, and  makes  brothers.  It  is  impatient 
with  all  the  unavailing  inventions  which  obscure 
the  brotherhood  of  mankind. 

I  descended  from  the  train  restlessly  —  there 
were  ten  minutes  to  elapse  before  the  departure  — 
and  walked  along  the  platform,  glimpsing  the 
faces  in  the  long  procession  of  windows,  and  then 
the  flowers  and  napery  in  the  two  restaurant-cars: 
wistful  all  alike,  I  thought  —  flowers  and  faces ! 
How  fanciful,  girlishly  fanciful,  I  was!  Opposite 
the  door  of  the  first  car  stood  a  gigantic  negro  in 
the  sober  blue  and  crimson  livery  of  the  Inter- 
national Sleeping  Car  Company.  He  wore  white 
gloves,  like  all  the  servants  on  the  train:  it  was 
to  foster  the  illusion;  it  was  part  of  what  we  paid  for. 

"When  is  luncheon  served?"  I  asked  him  idly. 

He  looked  massively  down  at  me  as  I  shivered 
slightly  in  my  furs.  He  contemplated  me  for  an 
instant.  He  seemed  to  add  me  up,  antipathetic- 
ally,  as  a  product  of  Western  civilization. 


THE  HAZARD  OF  DESTINY          165 

"Soon  as  the  train  starts,  madam,"  he  replied 
suavely,  in  good  American,  and  resumed  non- 
chalantly his  stare  into  the  distance  of  the  platform. 

"Thank  you!"  I  said. 

I  was  glad  that  I  had  encountered  him  on  that 
platform  and  not  in  the  African  bush.  I  specu- 
lated upon  the  chain  of  injustice  and  oppression 
that  had  warped  his  destiny  from  what  it  ought 
to  have  been  to  what  it  was.  "And  he,  too,  is 
human,  and  knows  love  and  grief  and  illusion, 
like  me."  I  mused.  A  few  yards  further  on  the 
engine-driver  and  stoker  were  busy  with  coal  and 
grease.  "Five  minutes  hence,  and  our  lives,  and 
our  correctness,  and  our  luxury,  will  be  in  their 
grimy  hands,"  I  said  to  myself.  Strange  world, 
the  world  of  the  train  de  grand  luxe  !  But  a  world 
of  brothers!  I  regained  my  carriage,  exactly,  after 
allj'as  the  inhabitants  of  Torquay  regained  theirs. 

Then  the  wondrous  self-contained  microcosm, 
shimmering  with  gilt  and  varnish  and  crystal, 
glorious  in  plush  and  silk,  heavy  with  souls  and 
all  that  correct  souls  could  possibly  need  in  twenty 
hours,  gathered  itself  up  and  rolled  forward, 
swiftly,  and  more  swiftly,  into  the  wide,  gray  land- 
scapes of  France.  The  vibrating  and  nerve-destroy- 
ing monotony  of  a  long  journey  had  commenced. 
We  were  summoned  by  white  gloves  to  luncheon; 
and  we  lunched  in  a  gliding  palace  where  the  heavenly 


i66  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

dreams  of  a  railway  director  had  received  their  most 
luscious  expression  —  and  had  then  been  modestly 
hidden  by  advertisements  of  hotels  and  brandy. 
The  Southern  flowers  shook  in  their  slender  glasses, 
and  white  gloves  balanced  dishes  as  if  on  board 
ship,  and  the  electric  fans  revolved  ceaselessly. 
As  I  was  finishing  my  meal,  a  middle-aged  woman 
whom  I  knew  came  down  the  car  towards  me. 
She  had  evidently  not  recognized  me. 

"How  do  you  do,  Miss  Kate?"  I  accosted  her. 

It  was  the  younger  of  Vicary's  two  maiden  sisters. 
I  guessed  that  the  other  could  not  be  far  away. 

She  hesitated,  stopped,  and  looked  down  at  me, 
rather  as  the  negro  had  done. 

"Oh!  how  do  you  do,  Miss  Peel?"  she  said  dis- 
tantly, with  a  nervous  simper;  and  she  passed  on. 

This  was  my  first  communication,  since  my 
disappearance,  with  the  world  of  my  London  friends 
and  acquaintances.  I  perceived,  of  course,  from 
Miss  Kate's  attitude  that  something  must  have 
occurred,  or  something  must  have  been  assumed,  to 
my  prejudice.  Perhaps  Frank  had  also  vanished 
for  a  time,  and  the  rumour  ran  that  we  were  away 
together.  I  smiled  frigidly.  What  matter?  In 
case  Miss  Vicary  should  soon  be  following  her  sister, 
I  left  without  delay  and  went  back  to  my  coupe; 
it  would  have  been  a  pity  to  derange  these  dames. 
Me  away  with  Frank!  What  folly  to  suppose  it! 


THE  HAZARD  OF  DESTINY          167 

Yet  it  might  have  been.  I  was  in  heart  what  these 
dames  probably  took  me  for.  I  read  a  little  in  the 
Imitation  of  Christ  which  Aunt  Constance  had 
meant  to  give  me,  that  book  which  will  survive 
sciences  and  even  Christianity  itself.  "Think  not 
that  thou  hast  made  any  progress,"  I  read,  "unless 
thou  feel  thyself  inferior  to  all.  .  .  Behold  how 
far  off  thou  art  yet  from  true  charity  and  humility: 
which  knows  not  how  to  be  angry  or  indignant, 
with  any  except  one's  self." 

Night  fell.  The  long,  illuminated  train  roared 
and  flashed  on  its  invisible  way  under  a  dome  of 
stars.  It  shrieked  by  mysterious  stations,  dragging 
furiously  its  freight  of  luxury  and  light  and  human 
masks  through  placid  and  humble  villages  and 
towns,  of  which  it  ignored  everything  save  their 
coloured  signals  of  safety.  Ages  of  oscillation  seem- 
ed to  pass.  In  traversing  the  corridors  one  saw 
interior  after  interior  full  of  the  signs  of  wearied 
humanity:  magazines  thrown  aside,  rugs  in  disorder, 
hair  dishevelled,  eyes  heavy,  cheeks  flushed,  limbs 
in  the  abandoned  attitudes  of  fatigue  —  here  and 
there  a  compartment  with  blinds  discreetly  drawn, 
suggesting  the  jealous  seclusion  of  love,  and  here  and 
there  a  group  of  animated  tattlers  or  card-players 
whose  nerves  nothing  could  affect,  and  who  were 
incapable  of  lassitude;  on  every  train  and  every 
steamer  a  few  such  are  to  be  found. 


i68  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

More  ages  passed,  and  yet  the  journey  had  but 
just  begun.  At  length  we  thundered  and  resounded 
through  canyons  of  tall  houses,  their  facades  oc- 
casionally bathed  in  the  cold,  blue  radiance  of  arc- 
lights;  and  under  streets  and  over  canals.  Paris! 
the  city  of  the  joy  of  life!  We  were  to  seethe 
muddied  skirts  of  that  brilliant  and  sinister  woman. 
We  panted  to  a  standstill  in  the  vast  echoing  cavern 
of  the  Gare  du  Nord,  stared  haughtily  and  drowsily 
at  its  bustling  confusion,  and  then  drew  back, 
to  carry  our  luxury  and  our  correctness  through  the 
lowest  industrial  quarters.  Belleville,  Menilmon- 
tant,  and  other  names  of  like  associations  we  read 
on  the  miserable,  forlorn  stations  of  the  Ceinture, 
past  which  we  trailed  slowly  our  disgust. 

We  made  a  semicircle  through  the  secret  shames 
that  beautiful  Paris  would  fain  hide,  and,  emerging, 
found  ourselves  in  the  deserted  and  stony  magnifi- 
cence of  the  Gare  de  Lyon,  the  gate  of  the  South. 
Here,  where  we  were  not  out  of  keeping,  where  our 
splendour  was  of  a  piece  with  the  splendour  of  the 
proudest  terminus  in  France,  we  rested  long,  fretted 
by  a  leisureliness  inexplicable  on  the  part  of  a 
train  de  grand  luxe,  while  gilded  officials  paced  to  and 
fro  beneath  us  on  the  platforms,  guarding  in  their 
bureaucratic  breasts  the  secret  of  the  exact  instant 
at  which  the  great  express  would  leave.  I  slept, 
and  dreamed  that  the  Misses  Vicary  had  brought 


THE  HAZARD  OF  DESTINY          169 

several  pairs  of  white  gloves  in  order  to  have  me 
dismissed  from  the  society  of  the  train.  A  hand 
touched  me.  It  was  Yvonne's.  I  awoke  to  a 
renewal  of  the  maddening  vibration.  We  had 
quitted  Paris  long  since.  It  was  after  seven  o'clock. 
"On  dit  que  le  diner  est  serri,  madame"  said 
Yvonne.  I  told  her  to  go,  and  I  collected  my 
wits  to  follow  her.  As  I  was  emerging  into  the 
corridor,  Miss  Kate  went  by.  I  smiled  faintly, 
perhaps  timidly.  She  cut  me  completely.  Then 
I  went  out  into  the  corridor.  A  man  was  stand- 
ing at  the  other  end  twirling  his  moustaches. 
He  turned  round. 

It  was  Frank. 

He  came  towards  me,  uncertainly  swaying  with 
the  movement  of  the  swaying  train. 

"Good  God!"  he  muttered,  and  stopped  within 
a  yard  of  me. 

I  clung  convulsively  to  the  framework  of  the 
doorway.  Our  lives  paused. 

"Why  have  you  followed  me,  Frank?"  I  asked 
gloomily,  in  a  whisper. 

I  had  meant  to  be  severe,  offended.  I  had  not 
meant  to  put  his  name  at  the  end  of  my  question, 
much  less  to  utter  it  tenderly,  like  an  endearment. 
But  I  had  little  control  over  myself.  I  was  almost 
breathless  with  a  fatal  surprise,  shaken  with  terrible 
emotion. 


i/o  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

"I've  not  followed  you,"  he  said.  "I  joined  the 
train  at  Paris.  I'd  no  idea  you  were  on  the  train 
till  I  saw  you  in  the  corner  asleep,  through  the 
window  of  the  compartment.  I've  been  waiting 
here  till  you  came  out." 

"Have  you  seen  the  Vicarys?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered. 

"Ah!  You've  been  away  from  London  all  this 
time?" 

"I  couldn't  stay.  I  couldn't.  I've  been  in 
Belgium  and  Holland.  Then  I  went  to  Paris. 
And  now  —  you  see  me." 

"I'm  going  to  Mentone,"  I  said.  "I  had  thought 
of  Monte  Carlo  first,  but  I  changed  my  mind. 
Where  are  you  going  to?" 

"Mentone,"  he  said. 

We  talked  in  hard,  strained  tones,  avoiding 
each  other's  eyes.  A  string  of  people  passed  along 
the  car  on  their  way  to  dinner.  I  withdrew  into  my 
compartment,  and  Frank  flattened  himself  against 
a  window. 

"Come  in  here  a  minute,"  I  said,  when  they 
were  gone. 

He  entered  the  compartment  and  sat  down 
opposite  to  me  and  lifted  his  hand,  perhaps  un- 
consciously, to  pull  the  door  to. 

"No,"  I  said;  "don't  shut  it.     Leave  it  like  that." 

He  was  dressed  in  a  gray  tourist  suit.     Never 


THE  HAZARD  OF  DESTINY          171 

before  had  I  seen  him  in  any  but  the  formal  attire 
of  London.  I  thought  he  looked  singularly  graceful 
and  distinguished,  even  romantic,  in  that  loose, 
soft  clothing.  But  no  matter  what  he  wore,  Frank 
satisfied  the  eye.  We  were  both  extremely  nervous 
and  excited  and  timid,  fearing  speech. 

"Carlotta,"  he  said  at  last  —  I  had  perceived 
that  he  was  struggling  to  a  resolution — "this 
is  the  best  thing  that  could  have  happened.  What- 
ever we  do,  everybody  will  believe  that  we  are 
running  off  together." 

"I  think  they  have  been  believing  that  ever 
since  we  left  London,"  I  said;  and  I  told  him  about 
Miss  Kate's  treatment  of  me  at  lunch.  "But 
how  can  that  affect  us?"  I  demanded. 

"Mary  will  believe  it  —  does  believe,  I'm  sure. 
Long  before  this,  people  will  have  enlightened  her. 
And  now  the  Vicarys  have  seen  us,  it's  all  over. 
Our  hand  is  forced,  isn't  it?" 

"Frank,"  I  said,  "didn't  you  think  my  letter 
was  right?" 

"I  obeyed  it,"  he  replied  heavily.  "I  haven't 
even  written  to  you.  I  meant  to  when  I  got  to 
Mentone." 

"But  didn't  you  think  I  was  right?" 

"I  don't  know.  Yes  —  I  suppose  you  were." 
His  lower  lip  fell.  "Of  course  I  don't  want  you  to 
do  anything  that  you " 


172  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

"Dinner,  please,"  said  my  negro,  putting  his 
head  between  us. 

We  both  informed  the  man  that  we  should  not 
dine,  and  I  asked  him  to  tell  Yvonne  not  to  wait 
for  me. 

"There's  your  maid,  too,  "  said  Frank.  "How 
are  we  going  to  get  out  of  it?  The  thing's  settled 
for  us." 

"My  dear,  dear  boy!"  I  exclaimed.  "Are  we 
to  outrage  our  consciences  simply  because  people 
think  we  have  outraged  them?" 

"It  isn't  my  conscience  —  it's  yours,"  he  said. 

"Well,  then  — mine." 

I  drew  down  my  veil;  I  could  scarcely  keep  dry  eyes. 

"Why  are  you  so  hard,  Carlotta?"  he  cried. 
"I  can't  understand  you.  I  never  could.  But 
you'll  kill  me  —  that's  what  you'll  do." 

Impulsively  I  leaned  forward,  and  he  seized  my 
hand.  Our  antagonism  melted  in  tears.  Oh, 
the  cruel  joy  of  that  moment!  Who  will  dare 
to  say  that  the  spirit  cannot  burn  with  pleasure 
while  drowning  in  grief?  Or  that  tragedy  may 
not  be  the  highest  bliss?  That  instant  of  renun- 
ciation was  our  true  marriage.  I  realize  it  now  — 
a  union  that  nothing  can  soil  nor  impair. 

"I  love  you;  you  are  fast  and  fast  in  my  heart," 
I  murmured.  "But  you  must  go  back  to  Mary. 
There  is  nothing  else." 


THE  HAZARD  OF  DESTINY          173 

And  I  withdrew  my  hand. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"You've  no  right,  my  dearest,  to  tell  me  to  go 
back  to  Mary.  I  cannot." 

"Forgive  me,"  I  said.  "I  have  only  the  right 
to  ask  you  to  leave  me." 

"Then  there  is  no  hope?" 

His  lips  trembled.     Ah!  those  lips! 

I  made  a  sign  that  there  was  no  hope.  And 
we  sat  in  silence,  overcome. 

A  servant  came  to  arrange  the  compartment 
for  sleeping,  and  we  were  obliged  to  assume  non- 
chalance and  go  into  the  corridor.  All  the  windows 
of  the  corridor  were  covered  with  frost  traceries. 
The  train  with  its  enclosed  heat  and  its  gleaming 
lamps  was  plunging  through  an  ice-gripped  night. 
I  thought  of  the  engine-driver,  perched  on  his  shak- 
ing, snorting,  monstrous  machine,  facing  the  weather, 
with  our  lives  and  our  loves  in  his  hand. 

"We'll  leave  each  other  now,  Frank,"  I  said, 
"before  the  people  begin  to  come  back  from  dinner. 
Go  and  eat  something." 

"But  you?" 

"I  shall  be  all  right.  Yvonne  will  get  me  some 
fruit.  I  shall  stay  in  our  compartment  till  we 
arrive." 

"Yes.  And  when  we  do  arrive  —  what  then? 
What  are  your  wishes?  You  see,  I  can't  leave 


174  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

the  train  before  we  get  to  Mentone  because  of  my 
registered  luggage." 

He  spoke  appealingly. 

The  dear  thing,  with  his  transparent  pretexts! 

"You  can  ignore  us  at  the  station,  and  then 
leave  Mentone  again  during  the  day." 

"As  you  wish,"  he  said. 

"Good-night!"  I  whispered.  "Good-bye!"  And 
I  turned  to  my  compartment. 

"Carlotta!"  he  cried  despairingly. 

But  I  shut  the  door  and  drew  the  blinds. 

Yvonne  was  discretion  itself  when  she  returned. 
She  had  surely  seen  Frank.     No  doubt  she  antici- 
pated piquant  developments  at  Mentone. 

All  night  I  lay  on  my  narrow  bed,  with  Yvonne 
faintly  snoring  above  me,  and  the  harsh  metallic 
rattle  of  the  swinging  train  beneath.  I  could 
catch  the  faint  ticking  of  my  watch  under  the  thin 
pillow.  The  lamp  burnt  delicately  within  its 
green  shade.  I  lay  almost  moveless,  almost  dead, 
shifting  only  at  long  intervals  from  side  to  side* 
Sometimes  my  brain  would  arouse  itself,  and  I 
would  live  again  through  each  scene  of  my  relation- 
ship with  Frank  and  Mary..  I  often  thought  of 
the  engine-driver,  outside,  watching  over  us  and 
unflinchingly  dragging  us  on.  I  hoped  that  his 
existence  had  compensations. 


CHAPTER  V 

NATURE  TRIUMPHANT 

EARLY  on  the  second  morning  after  that 
interview  in  the  train  I  sat  on  my  balcony 
in  the  Hotel  d'Ecosse,  full  in  the  tremen- 
dous sun  that  had  ascended  over  the  Mediter- 
ranean. The  shore  road  wound  along  beneath  me 
by  the  blue  water  that  never  receded  nor  advanced, 
lapping  always  the  same  stones.  A  vivid  yellow 
electric  tram,  like  a  toy,  crept  forward  on  my  left 
from  the  direction  of  Vintimille  and  Italy,  as  it  were 
swimming  noiselessly  on  the  smooth  surface  of 
the  road  among  the  palms  of  an  intense  green, 
against  the  bright  blue  background  of  the  sea; 
and  another  tram  advanced,  a  spot  of  orange,  to 
meet  it  out  of  the  variegated  tangle  of  tinted  houses 
composing  the  Old  Town.  High  upon  the  summit 
of  the  Old  Town  rose  the  slim,  rose-coloured  cupola 
of  the  church  in  a  sapphire  sky.  The  regular 
smiting  sound  of  a  cracked  bell,  viciously  rung, 
came  from  it.  The  eastern  prospect  was  shut  in 
by  the  last  olive-clad  spurs  of  the  Maritime  Alps, 
that  tread  violently  and  gigantically  into  the  sea. 
The  pathways  of  the  hotel  garden  were  being  gently 
175 


1 76  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

swept  by  a  child  of  the  sun,  who  could  not  have 
sacrificed  his  graceful  dignity  to  haste;  and  many 
peaceful  morning  activities  proceeded  on  the  road, 
on  the  shore,  and  on  the  jetty.  A  procession  of 
tawny  fishing-boats  passed  from  the  harbour  one 
after  another  straight  into  the  eye  of  the  sun,  and 
were  lost  there.  Smoke  climbed  up  softly  into  the 
soft  air  from  the  houses  and  hotels  on  the  level 
of  the  road.  The  trams  met  and  parted,  silently 
widening  the  distance  between  them  which  pre- 
viously they  had  narrowed.  And  the  sun  rose  and 
rose,bathing  the  blue  sea  and  the  rich  verdure  and  the 
glaring  white  architecture  in  the  very  fluidof  essential 
life.  The  whole  azure  coast  basked  in  it  like  an 
immense  cat,  commencing  the  day  with  a  voluptuous 
savouring  of  the  fact  that  it  was  alive.  The  sun  is 
the  treacherous  and  tyrannical  god  of  the  South,  and 
when  he  withdraws  himself,  arbitrary  and  cruel, 
the  land  and  the  people  shiver  and  prepare  to  die. 
It  was  such  a  morning  as  renders  sharp  and 
unmistakable  the  division  between  body  and  soul 
—  if  the  soul  suffers.  The  body  exults;  the  body 
cries  out  that  nothing  on  earth  matters  except 
climate.  Nothing  can  damp  the  glorious  ecstasy 
of  the  body  baptized  in  that  air,  caressed  by  that 
incomparable  sun.  It  laughs,  and  it  laughs  at  the 
sorrow  of  the  soul.  It  imperiously  bids  the  soul 
to  choose  the  path  of  pleasure;  it  shouts  aloud 


NATURE  TRIUMPHANT  177 

that  sacrifice  is  vain  and  honour  an  empty  word, 
full  of  inconveniences,  and  that  to  exist  amply 
and  vehemently,  to  listen  to  the  blood  as  it  beats 
strongly  through  the  veins,  is  the  end  of  the  eternal 
purpose.  Ah!  how  easy  it  is  to  martyrize  one's 
self  by  some  fatal  decision  made  grandly  in  the 
exaltation  of  a  supreme  moment!  And  how  difficult 
to  endure  the  martyrdom  without  regret!  I  re- 
gretted my  renunciation.  My  body  rebelled  against 
it,  and  even  my  soul  rebelled.  I  scorned  myself 
for  a  fool,  for  a  sentimental  weakling  —  yes,  and 
for  a  moral  coward.  Every  argument  that  presented 
itself  damaged  the  justice  of  my  decision.  After 
all,  we  loved,  and  in  my  secret  dreams  had  I  not 
always  put  love  first,  as  the  most  sacred?  The 
reality  was  that  I  had  been  afraid  of  what  Mary 
would  think.  True,  my  attitude  had  lied  to  her, 
but  I  could  not  have  avoided  that.  Decency  would 
have  forbidden  me  to  use  any  other  attitude;  and 
more  than  decency  —  kindness.  Ought  the  course 
of  lives  to  be  changed  at  the  bidding  of  mere  chance  ? 
It  was  a  mere  chance  that  Mary  had  called  on  me. 
I  bled  for  her  grief,  but  nothing  that  I  could  do 
would  assuage  it.  I  felt  sure  that,  in  the  impos- 
sible case  of  my  being  able  to  state  my  position 
to  her  and  argue  in  its  defence,  I  could  force  her  to 
see  that  in  giving  myself  to  Frank  I  was  not  being 
false  to  my  own  ideals.  What  else  could  count? 


178  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

What  other  consideration  should  guide  the  soul 
on  its  mysterious  instinctive  way?  Frank  and  I 
had  a  right  to  possess  each  other.  We  had  a  right 
to  be  happy  if  we  could.  And  the  one  thing  that 
had  robbed  us  of  that  right  was  my  lack  of  courage, 
caused  partly  by  my  feminine  mentality  (do  we 
not  realize  sometimes  how  ignobly  feminine  we 
are?),  and  partly  by  the  painful  spectacle  of  Mary's 
grief.  .  .  And  her  grief,  her  most  intimate  grief, 
sprang  not  from  thwarted  love,  but  from  a  base 
and  narrow  conventionality. 

Thus  I  declaimed  to  myself  in  my  heart,  under 
the  influence  of  the  seductive  temptations  of  that 
intoxicating  atmosphere. 

"Come  down,"  said  a  voice  firmly  and  quietly 
underneath  me  in  the  orange  trees  of  the  garden. 

I  started  violently.  It  was  Frank's  voice.  He 
was  standing  in  the  garden,  his  legs  apart,  and  a 
broad,  flat  straw  hat,  which  I  did  not  admire,  on 
his  head.  His  pale  face  was  puckered  round  about 
the  eyes  as  he  looked  up  at  me,  like  the  face  of  a 
person  trying  to  look  directly  at  the  sun. 

"Why,"  I  exclaimed  foolishly,  glancing  down 
over  the  edge  of  the  balcony,  and  shutting  my 
white  parasol  with  a  nervous,  hurried  movement, 
"have  —  have  you  come  here?" 

He  had  disobeyed  my  wish.  He  had  not  left 
Mentone  at  once. 


NATURE  TRIUMPHANT  179 

"Come  down,"  he  repeated  persuasively,  and 
yet  commandingly. 

I  could  feel  my  heart  beating  against  the  marble 
parapet  of  the  balcony.  I  seemed  to  be  caught, 
to  be  trapped.  I  could  not  argue  with  him  in  that 
position.  I  could  not  leave  him  shouting  in  the 
garden.  So  I  nodded  to  pacify  him,  and  disappeared 
quickly  from  the  balcony,  almost  scurrying  away. 
And  in  the  comparative  twilight  of  my  room  I 
stopped  and  gave  a  glance  in  the  mirror,  and  patted 
my  hair,  and  fearfully  examined  the  woman  that  I 
saw  in  the  glass,  as  if  to  discern  what  sort  of  woman 
she  truly  was,  and  what  was  the  root  of  her  char- 
acter. I  hesitated  and  snatched  up  my  gloves. 
I  wanted  to  collect  my  thoughts,  and  I  could  not. 
It  was  impossible  to  think  clearly.  I  moved  in 
the  room,  dazed.  I  stood  by  the  tumbled  bed, 
fingering  the  mosquito  curtains.  They  might  have 
been  a  veil  behind  which  was  obscured  the  magic 
word  of  enlightenment  I  needed.  I  opened  the  door, 
shut  it  suddenly,  and  held  the  knob  tight,  defying 
an  imagined  enemy  outside. 

"Oh!"  I  muttered  at  last,  angry  with  myself, 
"what  is  the  use  of  all  this?  You  know  you  must 
go  down  to  him.  He's  waiting  for  you.  Show  a 
little  common  sense  and  go  without  so  much  fuss." 
And  so  I  descended  the  stairs  swiftly  and  guiltily, 
relieved  that  no  one  happened  to  see  me.  In  any 


i8o  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

case,  I  decided,  nothing  could  induce  me  to  yield  to 
him  after  my  letter  and  after  what  had  passed  in  the 
train.  The  affair  was  beyond  argument.  I  felt 
that  I  could  not  yield,  and  that  though  it  meant 
the  ruin  of  happiness  by  obstinacy,  I  could  not 
yield.  I  shrank  from  yielding  in  that  moment  as 
men  shrink  from  public  repentance. 

He  had  not  moved  from  his  post  in  the  garden. 
We  shook  hands.  A  band  of  Italian  musicians 
wandered  into  the  garden  and  began  to  sing  Verdi 
to  a  vigorous  thrumming  of  guitars.  They  sang 
as  only  Italians  can  sing  —  as  naturally  as  they 
breathed,  and  with  a  rich  and  overflowing  inno- 
cent joy  in  the  art  which  Nature  had  taught  them. 
They  sang  loudly,  swingingly,  glancing  full  of  native 
hope  up  at  the  windows  of  the  vast,  unresponsive 
hotel. 

"  So  you  are  still  in  Mentone,"  I  ventured. 

"Yes,"  he  said.     "Come  for  a  walk." 

"But " 

"Come  for  a  walk." 

"Very  well,"  I  consented.     "As  I  am?" 

"As  you  are.  I  saw  you  all  in  white  on  the 
balcony,  and  I  was  determined  to  fetch  you 
out:" 

"But  could  you  see  who  it  was  from  the  road?" 

"Of  course  I  could.     I  knew  in  an  instant." 

We  descended,  he  a  couple  of  paces  in  front  of 


NATURE  TRIUMPHANT  181 

me,  the  narrow  zigzag  path  leading  down  between 
two  other  hotels  to  the  shore  road. 

"What  will  happen  now?"  I  asked  myself  wildly. 
My  head  swam. 

It  seemed  that  nothing  would  happen.  We 
turned  eastwards,  walking  slowly,  and  I  began 
to  resume  my  self-control.  Only  the  simple  and 
the  humble  were  abroad  at  that  early  hour:  pur- 
veyors of  food,  in  cheerfully  rattling  carts,  or  haul- 
ing barrows  with  the  help  of  grave  and  formidable 
dogs;  washers  and  cleaners  at  the  doors  of  highly- 
decorated  villas,  amiably  performing  their  tasks 
while  the  mighty  slept;  fishermen  and  fat  fisher- 
girls,  industriously  repairing  endless  brown  nets 
on  the  other  side  of  the  parapet  of  the  road;  a  post- 
man and  a  little  policeman;  a  porcelain-mender,  who 
practised  his  trade  under  the  shadow  of  the  wall; 
a  few  loafers;  some  stable-boys  exercising  horses; 
and  children  with  adorable  dirty  faces,  shouting 
in  their  high  treble  as  they  played  at  hopscotch. 
I  felt  very  closely  akin  to  these  meek  ones  as  we 
walked  along.  They  were  so  human,  so  wistful. 
They  had  the  wonderful  simplicity  of  animals, 
uncomplicated  by  the  disease  of  self-consciousness; 
they  were  the  vital  stuff  without  the  embroidery. 
They  preserved  the  customs  of  their  ancestors, 
rising  with  the  sun,  frankly  and  splendidly  enjoying 
the  sun,  looking  up  to  it  as  the  most  important  thing 


182  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

in  the  world.  They  never  attempted  to  under- 
stand what  was  beyond  them;  they  troubled  not 
with  progress,  ideals,  righteousness,  the  claims  of 
society.  They  accepted  humbly  and  uninquiringly 
what  they  found.  They  lived  the  life  of  their 
instincts,  sometimes  violent,  often  kindly,  and 
always  natural.  Why  should  I  have  felt  so  near 
to  them? 

A  calm  and  gentle  pleasure  filled  me,  far  from 
intense,  but  yet  satisfying.  I  determined  to  enjoy 
the  moment,  or,  perhaps,  without  determination, 
I  gave  myself  up,  gradually,  to  the  moment.  I 
forgot  care  and  sorrow.  I  was  well;  I  was  with 
Frank;  I  was  in  the  midst  of  enchanting  natural 
beauty;  the  day  was  fair  and  fresh  and  virgin. 
I  knew  not  where  I  was  going.  Shorewards  a 
snowy  mountain  ridge  rose  above  the  long,  wide 
slopes  of  olives,  dotted  with  white  dwellings.  A 
single  sail  stood  up  seawards  on  the  immense  sheet 
of  blue.  The  white  sail  appeared  and  disappeared 
in  the  green  palm-trees  as  we  passed  eastwards. 
Presently  we  left  the  sea,  and  we  lost  the  hills,  and 
came  into  a  street  of  poor  little  shops  for  simple 
folk,  that  naively  exposed  their  cheap  and  tawdry 
goods  to  no  matter  what  mightiness  should  saunter 
that  way.  And  then  we  came  to  the  end  of  the 
tram-line,  and  it  was  like  the  end  of  the  world. 
And  we  saw  in  the  distance  abodes  of  famous  persons, 


NATURE  TRIUMPHANT  183 

fabulously  rich,  defying  the  sea  and  the  hills,  and 
condescending  from  afar  off  to  the  humble.  We 
crossed  the  railway,  and  a  woman  ran  out  from  a 
cabin  with  a  spoon  in  one  hand  and  a  soiled  flag 
in  the  other,  and  waved  the  flag  at  a  towering 
black  engine  that  breathed  stertorously  in  a  cut- 
ting.  Already  we  were  climbing,  and  the 
road  grew  steeper,  and  then  we  came  to  custom- 
houses —  unsightly,  squalid,  irregular,  and  mean 
—  in  front  of  which  officials  laughed  and  lounged 
and  smoked. 

We  talked  scarcely  at  all. 

"You  were  up  early  this  morning,"  he  said. 

"Yes;  I  could  not  sleep." 

"It  was  the  same  with  me." 

We  recovered  the  sea;  but  now  it  was  far  below 
us,  and  the  footprints  of  the  wind  were  marked 
on  it,  and  it  was  not  one  blue,  but  a  thousand  blues, 
and  it  faded  imperceptibly  into  the  sky.  The  sail, 
making  Mentone,  was  much  nearer,  and  had  devel- 
oped into  a  two-masted  ship.  It  seemed  to  be 
pushed,  rather  than  blown,  along  by  the  wind.  It 
seemed  to  have  rigidity  in  all  its  parts,  and  to  be 
sliding  unwillingly  over  a  vast  slate.  The  road 
lay  through  craggy  rocks,  shelving  away  unseen, 
on  one  hand,  and  rising  steeply  against  the  burning 
sky  on  the  other.  We  mounted  steadily  and  slowly. 
I  did  not  look  much  at  Frank,  but  my  eye  was 


i84          THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

conscious  of  his  figure,  striding  leisurely  along. 
Now  and  then,  when  I  turned  to  glance  behind,  I 
saw  our  shadows  there  diagonally  on  the  road;  and 
again  I  did  not  care  for  his  hat.  I  had  not  seen  him 
in  a  straw  hat  till  that  morning.  We  arrived  at 
a  second  set  of  French  custom-houses,  deserted, 
and  then  we  saw  that  the  gigantic  side  of  the  moun- 
tain was  cleft  by  a  fissure  from  base  to  summit. 
And  across  the  gorge  had  been  thrown  a  tiny  stone 
bridge  to  carry  the  road.  At  this  point,  by  the 
bridge,  the  face  of  the  rock  had  been  carved  smooth, 
and  a  great  black  triangle  painted  on  it.  And  on 
the  road  was  a  common  milestone,  with  "France" 
on  one  side  and  "Italia"  on  the  other.  And  a  very 
old  man  was  harmlessly  spreading  a  stock  of  picture 
postcards  on  the  parapet  of  the  bridge.  My  heart 
went  out  to  that  poor  old  man,  whose  white  curls 
glinted  in  the  sunlight.  It  seemed  to  me  so  pathetic 
that  he  should  -be  just  there,  at  that  natural  spot 
which  the  passions  and  the  blood  of  men  long  dead 
had  made  artificial,  tediously  selling  postcards  in 
order  to  keep  his  worn  and  creaking  body  out  of  the 
grave. 

"Do  give  him  something,"  I  entreated  Frank. 

And  while  Frank  went  to  him  I  leaned  over 
the  other  parapet  and  listened  for  the  delicate 
murmur  of  the  stream  far  below.  The  split  flank 
of  the  hill  was  covered  with  a  large  red  blossom, 


NATURE  TRIUMPHANT  185 

and  at  the  base,  on  the  edge  of  the  sea,  were  dolls' 
houses,  each  raising  a  slanted  pencil  of  pale 
smoke. 

Then  we  were  in  Italy,  and  still  climbing.  We 
saw  a  row  of  narrow,  slattern  cottages,  their  backs 
toward  the  sea,  and  in  front  of  them  marched 
to  and  fro  a  magnificent  soldier  laced  in  gold,  with 
clinking  spurs  and  a  rifle.  Suddenly  there  ran 
out  of  a  cottage  two  little  girls,  aged  about 
four  years  and  eight  years,  dirty,  unkempt,  de- 
licious, shrill,  their  movements  full  of  the  ravish- 
ing grace  of  infancy.  They  attacked  the  laced 
soldier,  chattering  furiously,  grumbling  at  him, 
intimidating  him  with  the  charming  gestures  of 
spoilt  and  pouting  children.  And  he  bent  down 
stiffly  in  his  superb  uniform,  and  managed  his 
long,  heavy  gun,  and  talked  to  them  in  a  deep, 
vibrating  voice.  He  reasoned  with  them  till  we 
could  hear  him  no  more.  It  was  so  touching, 
so  exquisitely  human! 

We  reached  the  top  of  the  hill,  having  passed 
the  Italian  customs,  equally  vile  with  the  French. 
The  terraced  grounds  of  an  immense  deserted 
castle  came  down  to  the  roadside;  and  over  the 
wall,  escaped  from  the  garden,  there  bloomed 
extravagantly  a  tangle  of  luscious  yellow  roses, 
just  out  of  our  reach.  The  road  was  still  and 
deserted.  We  could  see  nothing  but  the  road 


1 86  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

and  the  sea  and  the  hills,  all  steeped,  bewitched 
and  glorious  under  the  sun.  The  ship  had  nearly 
slid  to  Mentone.  The  curving  coastline  of  Italy 
wavered  away  into  the  shimmering  horizon.  And 
there  were  those  huge  roses,  insolently  blooming 
in  the  middle  of  winter,  the  symbol  of  the  terrific 
forces  of  nature  which  slept  quiescent  under  the 
universal  calm.  Perched  as  it  were  in  a  niche  of 
the  hills,  we  were  part  of  that  tremendous  and 
ennobling  scene.  Long  since  the  awkward  self- 
consciousness  caused  by  our  plight  had  left  us. 
We  did  not  use  speech,  but  we  knew  that  we  thought 
alike,  and  were  suffering  the  same  transcendent 
emotion.  Was  it  joy  or  sadness?  Rather  than 
either,  it  was  an  admixture  of  both,  originating  in 
a  poignant  sense  of  the  grandeur  of  life  and  of  the 
earth. 

"Oh,  Frank,"  I  murmured,  my  spirit  bursting, 
"how  beautiful  it  is!" 

Our  eyes  met.  He  took  me  and  kissed  me  im- 
petuously, as  though  my  utterance  had  broken  a 
spell  which  enchained  him.  And  as  I  kissed  him 
I  wept,  blissfully.  Nature  had  triumphed. 


CHAPTER  VI 
MARY'S  PART 

WE  DEPARTED  from  Mentone  that  same 
day  after  lunch.  I  could  not  remove  to 
his  hotel;  he  could  not  remove  to  mine; 
for  this  was  Mentone.  We  went  to  Monte  Carlo  by 
road,  our  luggage  following.  We  chose  Monte 
Carlo  partly  because  it  was  the  nearest  place,  and 
partly  because  it  has  some  of  the  qualities  —  in- 
curious, tolerant,  unprovincial  —  of  a  capital  city. 
If  we  encountered  friends  there,  so  much  the  better, 
in  the  end.  The  great  adventure,  the  solemn  and 
perilous  enterprise  had  begun.  I  sent  Yvonne  for  a 
holiday  to  her  home  in  Laroche.  Why?  Ah, 
why?  Perhaps  for  the  simple  reason  that  I  had 
not  the  full  courage  of  my  convictions.  We  seldom 
have  —  nous  autres.  I  felt  that,  if  she  had  remained 
Yvonne  would  have  been  too  near  me  in  the  enter- 
prise. I  could  not  at  first  have  been  my  natural 
self  with  her.  I  told  the  astonished  and  dissatis- 
fied Yvonne  that  I  would  write  to  her  as  soon  as 
I  wanted  her.  Yet  in  other  ways  I  had  courage, 
and  I  found  a  delicious  pleasure  in  my  courage. 
When  I  was  finally  leaving  the  hotel  I  had  Frank 
187 


1 88  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

by  my  side.  I  behaved  to  him  as  to  a  husband.  I 
publicly  called  him  "dear."  I  asked  his  advice  in 
trifles.  He  paid  my  bill.  He  even  provided  the 
money  necessary  for  Yvonne.  My  joy  in  the 
possession  of  this  male  creature,  whose  part  it  now 
was  to  do  for  me  a  thousand  things  that  hitherto  I 
had  been  forced  to  do  for  myself,  was  almost  native. 
I  could  not  hide  it.  I  was  at  last  a  man's  woman. 
I  had  a  protector.  Yes;  I  must  not  shrink  from 
the  equivocal  significance  of  that  word  —  I  had  a 
protector. 

Frank  was  able  to  get  three  rooms  at  the  Hotel 
de  Paris  at  Monte  Carlo.  I  had  only  to  approve 
them.  We  met  in  our  sitting-room  at  half-past 
three,  ready  to  go  out  for  a  walk.  It  would  be 
inexact  to  say  that  we  were  not  nervous.  But  we 
were  happy.  He  had  not  abandoned  his  straw  hat. 

"Don't  wear  that  any  more,"  I  said  to  him, 
smiling. 

"But  why?     It's  quite  new." 

"It  doesn't  suit  you,"  I  said. 

"Oh,  that  doesn't  matter,"  he  laughed,  and  he 
put  it  on. 

"But  I  don't  like  to  see  you  in  it,"  I  persisted. 

"Well,  you'll  stand  it  this  afternoon,  my  angel, 
and  I'll  get  another  to-morrow." 

"Haven't  you  got  another  one  here?"  I  asked, 
with  discontent. 


MARY'S  PART  189 

"No,"  and  he  laughed  again. 

"But,  dear "  I  pouted. 

He  seemed  suddenly  to  realize  that  as  a  fact  I 
did  not  like  the  hat. 

"Come  here,"  he  said,  charmingly  grave;  and 
he  led  me  by  the  hand  into  his  bedroom,  which 
was  littered  with  clothes,  small  parcels,  boots,  and 
brushes.  One  chair  was  overturned. 

"Heavens!"  I  muttered,  pretending  to  be  shocked 
at  the  disorder. 

He  drew  me  to  a  leather  box  of  medium  size. 

"You  can  open  it,"  he  said. 

I  opened  it.  The  thing  was  rather  a  good  con- 
trivance, for  a  man.  It  held  a  silk  hat,  an  opera 
hat,  a  bowler  hat,  some  caps,  and  a  soft  Panama 
straw. 

"And  you  said  you  had  no  others!"  I  grumbled 
at  him. 

"Well,  which  is  it  to  be?"  he  demanded. 

"This,  of  course,"  I  said,  taking  the  bowler. 
I  reached  up,  removed  the  straw  hat  from  his  head, 
and  put  the  bowler  in  its  place.  "There!"  I  ex- 
claimed, satisfied,  giving  the  bowler  a  pat  — 
"there!" 

He  laughed,  immensely  content,  enraptured, 
foolishly  blissful.  We  were  indeed  happy.  Before 
opening  the  door  leading  to  the  corridor  we  stopped 
and  kissed. 


190  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

On  the  seaward  terrace  of  the  vast,  pale,  floriated 
Casino,  so  impressive  in  its  'glittering  vulgarity, 
like  the  bride-cake  of  a  stockbroker's  wedding, 
we  strolled  about  among  a  multifarious  crowd, 
immersed  in  ourselves.  We  shared  a  contempt 
for  the  architecture,  the  glaring  flower-beds,  and 
the  false  distinction  of  the  crowd,  and  an  enthusi- 
asm for  the  .sunshine  and  the  hills  and  the  sea, 
and  whatever  else  had  escaped  the  hands  of  the 
Casino  administration.  We  talked  lightly  and 
freely.  Care  seemed  to  be  leaving  us;  we  had  no 
preoccupations  save  those  which  were  connected 
with  our  passion. 

Then  I  saw,  standing  in  an  attitude  of  attention, 
the  famous  body-servant  of  Lord  Francis  Alcar, 
and  I  knew  that  Lord  Francis  could  not  be  far  away. 
We  spoke  to  the  valet;  he  pointed  out  his  master, 
seated  at  the  front  of  the  terrace,  and  told  us,  in  a 
discreet,  pained,  respectful  voice,  that  our  venerable 
friend  had  been  mysteriously  unwell  at  Monte 
Carlo,  and  was  now  taking  the  air  for  the  first 
time  in  ten  days.  I  determined  that  we  should 
go  boldly  and  speak  to  him. 

"Lord  Francis,"  I  said  gently,  after  we  had 
stood  some  seconds  by  his  chair,  unremarked. 

He  was  staring  fixedly  at  the  distance  of  the  sea. 
He  looked  amazingly  older  than  when  I  had  last 
talked  with  him.  His  figure  was  shrunken,  and  his 


MARY'S  PART  191 

face  rose  thin  and  white  out  of  a  heavy  fur  overcoat 
and  a  large  blue  muffler.  In  his  eyes  there  was 
such  sadness,  such  infinite  regret,  such  profound 
weariness,  as  can  only  be  seen  in  the  eyes  of  the 
senile.  He  was  utterly  changed. 

"Lord  Francis,"  I  repeated,  "don't  you  know 
me?" 

He  started  slightly  and  looked  at  me,  and  a  faint 
gleam  appeared  in  his  eyes.  Then  he  nodded, 
and  took  a  thin,  fragile  alabaster  hand  out  of  the 
pocket  of  his  overcoat.  I  shook  it.  It  was  like 
shaking  hands  with  a  dead,  starved  child.  He 
carefully  moved  the  skin  and  bone  back  into  his 
pocket. 

"Are  you  pretty  well?"  I  said. 

He  nodded.  Then  the  faint  gleam  faded  out 
of  his  eyes;  his  head  fell  a  little,  and  he  resumed 
his  tragic  contemplation  of  the  sea.  The  fact 
of  my  presence  had  dropped  like  a  pebble  into 
the  strange  depths  of  that  aged  mind,  and  the 
waters  of  the  ferocious  egotism  of  senility  had 
closed  over  it,  and  it  was  forgotten.  His  rapt 
and  yet  meaningless  gaze  frightened  me.  It  was 
as  if  there  was  more  desolation  and  disillusion  in 
that  gaze  than  I  had  previously  imagined  the 
whole  earth  to  contain.  Useless  for  Frank  to 
rouse  him  for  the  second  time.  Useless  to  explain 
ourselves.  What  was  love  to  him,  or  the  trivial 


I92  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

conventions  of  a  world  which  he  was  already  quit- 
ting? 

We  walked  away.  From  the  edge  of  the  terrace 
I  could  see  a  number  of  boats  pulling  to  and  fro 
in  the  water. 

"It's  the  pigeon-shooting,"  Frank  explained. 
"Come  to  the  railings  and  you'll  be  able  to  see." 

I  had  already  heard  the  sharp  popping  of  rifles. 
I  went  to  the  railings,  and  saw  a  number  of  boxes 
arranged  in  a  semicircle  on  a  green,  which  was, 
as  it  were,  suspended  between  the  height  of  the 
terrace  and  the  sea.  Suddenly  one  of  the  boxes 
collapsed  with  a  rattle,  and  a  bird  flew  out  of  the 
ruin  of  it.  There  were  two  reports  of  a  gun;  the 
bird,  its  curving  flight  cut  short,  fell  fluttering 
to  the  grass;  a  dog  trotted  out  from  the  direction 
of  the  gun  unseen  beneath  us,  and  disappeared 
again  with  the  mass  of  ruffled  feathers  in  its  mouth. 
Then  two  men  showed  themselves,  ran  to  the  col- 
lapsed box,  restored  it,  and  put  in  it  a  fresh  victim, 
and  disappeared  after  the  dog.  I  was  horrified, 
but  I  could  not  remove  my  eyes  from  the 
green.  Another  box  fell  flat,  and  another  bird 
flew  out;  a  gun  sounded;  the  bird  soared  far 
away,  wavered,  and  sank  onto  the  surface  of  the 
sea,  and  the  boats  converged  towards  it  in  furious 
haste.  So  the  game  proceeded.  I  saw  a  dozen 
deaths  on  the  green;  a  few  birds  fell  into  the 


MARY'S  PART  193 

sea,  and  one  escaped,  settling  ultimately  on  the 
roof  of  the  Casino. 

"So  that  is  pigeon-shooting,"  I  said  coldly, 
turning  to  Frank.  "I  suppose  it  goes  on  all  day?" 

He  nodded. 

"  It's  just  as  cruel  as  plenty  of  other  sports,  and  no 
more,"  he  said,  as  if  apologizing  fortheentiremalesex. 

"I  presume  so,"  I  answered.  "But  do  you 
know,  dear,  if  the  idea  once  gets  into  my  head  that 
that  is  going  on  all  day,  I  shan't  be  able  to  stop  here. 
Let  us  have  some  tea  somewhere." 

Not  until  dinner  did  I  recover  from  the  obsession 
of  that  continual  slaughter  and  destruction  of 
beautiful  life.  It  seemed  to  me  that  the  Casino 
and  its  gorgeous  gardens  were  veritably  established 
on  the  mysterious  arched  hollow,  within  the  high 
cliff,  from  which  death  shot  out  all  day  and  every 
day.  But  I  did  recover  perfectly.  Only  now  do  I 
completely  perceive  how  violent,  how  capricious 
and  contradictory  were  my  emotions  in  those  unique 
and  unforgettable  hours. 

We  dined  late,  because  I  had  deprived  myself 
of  Yvonne.  Already  I  was  almost  in  a  mind  to 
send  for  her.  The  restaurant  of  th^  hotel  was 
full,  but  we  recognized  no  one  as  we  walked  through 
the  room  to  our  table. 

"There  is  one  advantage  in  travelling  about  with 
you,"  said  Frank. 


194          THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

"What  is  it?"  I  asked. 

"No  matter  where  one  is,  one  can  always  be 
sure  of  being  with  the  most  beautiful  woman  in 
the  place." 

I  was  content.  I  repaid  him  by  being  more 
than  ever  a  man's  woman.  I  knew  that  I  was 
made  for  that.  I  understood  why  great  sopranos 
have  of  their  own  accord  given  up  even  the  stage 
on  marriage.  The  career  of  literature  seemed  to 
me  tedious  and  sordid  in  comparison  with  that  of 
being  a  man's  woman.  In  my  rich  black  dress 
and  my  rings  and  bracelets  I  felt  like  an  Eastern 
empress;  I  felt  that  I  could  adequately  reward 
homage  with  smiles,  and  love  with  fervid  love. 
And  I  felt  like  a  cat  —  idle,  indolently  graceful, 
voluptuously  seeking  warmth  and  caresses.  I 
enveloped  Frank  with  soft  glances,  I  dazed  him 
with  glances.  He  ordered  a  wine  which  he  said 
was  fit  for  gods,  and  the  waiter  brought  it  rever- 
ently and  filled  our  glasses,  with  a  ritual  of  pre- 
cautions. Later  during  the  dinner  Frank  asked 
me  if  I  would  prefer  champagne.  I  said,  "No, 
of  course  not."  But  he  said,  "I  think  you  would," 
and  ordered  some.  "Admit,"  he  said,  "that  you 
prefer  champagne."  "Well,  of  course,"  I  replied. 
But  I  drank  very  little  champagne,  lest  I  should 
be  too  happy.  Frank's  wonderful  face  grew  deli- 
cately flushed.  The  room  resounded  with  discreet 


MARY'S  PART  195 

chatter,  and  the  tinkle  of  glass  and  silver  and 
porcelain.  The  upper  part  of  it  remained  in  shadow, 
but  every  table  was  a  centre  of  rosy  light,  illuminat- 
ing faces  and  jewels  and  napery.  And  in  my  sweet 
illusion  I  thought  that  every  face  had  found  the 
secret  of  joy,  and  that  even  the  old  had  preserved 
it.  Pleasure  reigned.  Pleasure  was  the  sole  goddess. 
And  how  satisfying  then  was  the  worship  of 
her!  Life  had  no  inconveniences,  no  dark 
spots,  no  pit-falls.  The  gratification  of  the  senses, 
the  appeasing  of  appetites  that  instantly  re- 
newed themselves  —  this  was  the  business  of  the 
soul.  And  as  the  wine  sank  lower  in  the  bot- 
tles, and  we  cooled  our  tongues  with  ices,  and 
the  room  began  to  empty,  expectation  gleamed 
and  glittered  in  our  eyes.  At  last,  except  a 
group  of  men  smoking  and  talking  in  a  corner,  we 
were  the  only  diners  left. 

"Shall  we  go?"  Frank  said,  putting  a  veil  of 
cigarette  smoke  between  us. 

I  trembled.  I  was  once  more  the  young  and 
timid  girl.  I  could  not  speak.  I  nodded. 

In  the  hall  was  Vicary,  talking  to  the  headporter. 
He  saw  us  and  started. 

"What!     Vicary!"  I  murmured,  suddenly  cooled. 

"I  want  to  speak  to  you,"  said  Vicary.  "Where 
can  we  go?" 

"This  way,"  Frank  replied. 


196  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

We  went  to  our  sitting-room,  silent  and  appre- 
hensive. 

"Sit  down,"  said  Vicary,  shutting  the  door  and 
standing  against  it. 

He  was  wearing  a  tourist  suit,  with  a  gray  over- 
coat, and  his  grizzled  hair  was  tumbling  over  his 
hard,  white  face. 

"What's  the  matter?"  Frank  asked.  "Anything 
wrong?" 

"Look  here,  you  two,"  said  Vicary,  "I 
don't  want  to  discuss  your  position,  and  I'm 
the  last  person  in  this  world  to  cast  the  first 
stone;  but  it  falls  to  me  to  do  it.  I  was  coming 
down  to  Nice  to  stay  with  my  sisters,  and  I've 
come  a  little  further.  My  sisters  wired  me  they 
had  seen  you.  I've  been  to  Mentone,  and 
driven  here  from  there.  I  hoped  I  should  get 
here  earlier  than  the  newspapers,  and  I  have  done 
it,  it  seems." 

"Earlier  than  the  newspapers?"  Frank  repeated, 
standing  up. 

"Try  to  keep  calm,"  Vicary  continued.  "Your 
wife's  body  was  found  in  the  Thames  at  seven 
o'clock  last  night.  The  doctors  say  it  had  been 
in  the  water  for  forty-eight  hours.  Your  servants 
thought  she  had  gone  to  you.  But  doubtless 
some  thoughtful  person  had  told  her  that  you  two 
were  wandering  about  Europe  together." 


MARY'S  PART  197 

"My  wife!"  cried  Frank. 

And  the  strange  and  terrible  emphasis  he  put 
on  the  word  "wife  "  proved  to  me  in  the  fraction 
of  a  second  that  in  his  heart  I  was  not  his  wife. 
A  fearful  tragedy  had  swept  away  the  structure  of 
argument  in  favour  of  the  rights  of  love  which  he 
had  built  over  the  original  conventionality  of  his 
mind.  Poor  fellow! 

He  fell  back  into  his  chair  and  covered  his  eyes. 

"I  thank  God  my  mother  didn't  live  to  see  this!" 
he  cried. 

And  then  he  rushed  to  his  bedroom  and  banged 
the  door. 

"My  poor  girl!"  said  Vicary,  approaching  me. 
"What  can  I  -  I'm  awfully " 

I  waved  him  away. 

"What's  that?"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  different  voice, 
listening. 

I  ran  to  the  bedroom,  and  saw  Frank  lifting  a 
revolver. 

"You've  brought  me  to  this,  Carlotta!"  he 
shouted. 

I  sprang  towards  him,  but  it  was  too  late. 


PART  III 
THE  VICTORY 


CHAPTER  I 
THE  MEETING 

WHEN  I  came  out  of  the  house,  hurried  and 
angrily  flushing,  I  perceived  clearly  that 
my  reluctance  to  break  a  habit  and  my 
desire  for  physical  comfort,  if  not  my  attachment  to 
the  girl,  had  led  me  too  far.  I  was  conscious  of 
humiliation.  I  despised  myself.  The  fact  was 
that  I  had  quarrelled  with  Yvonne — Yvonne,  who 
had  been  with  me  for  eight  years,  Yvonne  who  had 
remained  sturdily  faithful  during  my  long  exile. 
Now  the  woman  who  quarrels  with  a  maid  is 
clumsy,  and  the  woman  who  quarrels  with  a  good 
maid  is  either  a  fool  or  in  a  nervous,  hysterical 
condition,  or  both.  Possibly  I  was  both.  I  had 
permitted  Yvonne  too  much  liberty.  I  had  spoilt 
her.  She  was  fidelity  itself,  goodness  itself;  but 
her  character  had  not  borne  the  strain  of  realizing 
that  she  had  acquired  power  over  me,  that  she 
had  in  fact  become  necessary  to  me.  So  that  morn- 
ing we  had  differed  violently;  we  had  quarrelled 
as  equals.  The  worst  side  of  her  had  appeared 
suddenly,  shockingly.  And  she  had  left  me, 


202          THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

demonstrating  even  as  she  banged  the  door  that 
she  was  at  least  superior  in  altercation.  All  day 
I  fought  against  the  temptation  to  eat  my  pride, 
and  ask  her  to  return.  It  was  a  horrible,  a  de- 
plorable, temptation.  And  towards  evening,  after 
seven  hours  of  solitude  in  the  hotel  in  the  Avenue 
de  Kleber,  I  yielded  to  it.  I  knew  the  address 
to  which  she  had  gone,  and  I  took  a  cab  and  drove 
there,  hating  myself.  I  was  received  with  excessive 
rudeness  by  a  dirty  and  hag-like  concierge,  who,  after 
refusing  all  information  for  some  minutes,  informed 
me  at  length  that  the  young  lady  in  question  had 
quitted  Paris  in  company  with  a  gentleman. 

The  insolence  of  the  concierge,  my  weakness 
and  my  failure,  the  bitter  sense  of  lost  dignity,  the 
fact  that  Yvonne  had  not  hesitated  for  even  a  few 
hours  before  finally  abandoning  me — all  these 
things  wounded  me.  But  the  sharpest  stab  of  all 
was  that  during  our  stay  in  Paris  Yvonne  must 
have  had  secret  relations  with  a  man.  I  had 
hidden  nothing  from  her;  she,  however,  had  not 
reciprocated  my  candour.  I  had  imagined  that 
she  lived  only  for  me.  .  .  . 

Well,  the  truth  cannot  be  concealed  that  the 
years  of  wandering  which  had  succeeded  the  fatal 
night  at  Monte  Carlo  had  done  little  to  improve 
me.  What  would  you  have  ?  For  months  and 
months  my  ears  rang  with  Frank's  despairing 


THE  MEETING  203 

shout:  "You've  brought  me  to  this,  Carlotta !" 
And  the  profound  injustice  of  that  cry  tainted 
even  the  sad  sweetness  of  my  immense  sorrow. 
To  this  day,  whenever  I  hear  it,  as  I  do  still,  my 
inmost  soul  protests,  and  all  the  excuses  which  my 
love  found  for  him  seem  inadequate  and  uncon- 
vincing. I  was  a  broken  creature.  (How  few 
know  what  it  means  to  be  broken — to  sink  under 
a  tremendous  and  overwhelming  calamity!  And 
yet  who  but  they  can  understandingly  sympathize 
with  the  afflicted?)  As  for  my  friends,  I  did  not 
give  them  the  occasion  to  desert  me;  I  deserted 
them.  For  the  second  time  in  my  career  I  tore 
myself  up  by  the  roots.  I  lived  the  nomad's  life, 
in  the  usual  European  haunts  of  the  nomad.  And 
in  five  years  I  did  not  make  a  single  new  friend, 
scarcely  an  acquaintance.  I  lived  in  myself  and 
on  myself,  nursing  grief,  nursing  a  rancour  against 
fate,  nursing  an  involuntary  shame.  .  .  .  You 
know,  the  scandal  of  which  I  had  been  the  centre 
was  appalling;  it  touched  the  extreme.  It  must 
have  nearly  killed  the  excellent  Mrs.  Sardis.  I 
did  not  dare  to  produce  another  novel.  But  after 
a  year  or  so  I  turned  to  poetry,  and  I  must  admit 
that  my  poetry  was  accepted.  But  it  was  not 
enough  to  prevent  me  from  withering  —  from 
shrivelling.  I  lost  ground,  and  I  was  still  losing 
it.  I  was  becoming  sinister,  warped,  peculiar, 


204  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

capricious,    unaccountable.     I    guessed    it   then;     I 
see  it  clearly  now. 

The  house  of  the  odious  concierge  was  in  a 
small,  shabby  street  off  the  Boulevard  du  Mont- 
parnasse.  I  looked  in  vain  for  a  cab.  Even  on 
the  wide,  straight,  gas-lit  boulevard  there  was  not 
a  cab,  and  I  wondered  why  I  had  been  so  foolish 
as  to  dismiss  the  one  in  which  I  had  arrived.  The 
great,  glittering  electric  cars  floated  horizontally 
along  in  swift  succession,  but  they  meant  nothing 
to  me;  I  knew  not  whence  they  came  nor  whither 
they  went.  I  doubt  if  I  had  ever  been  in  a  tram- 
car.  Without  a  cab  I  was  as  helpless  and  as  timid 
as  a  young  girl  —  I  who  was  thirty-one,  and  had 
travelled  and  lived  and  suffered!  Never  had  I 
been  alone  in  the  streets  of  a  large  city  at  night. 
And  the  September  night  was  sultry  and  forbid- 
ding. I  was  afraid  —  I  was  afraid  of  the  men  who 
passed  me,  staring  at  me.  One  man  spoke  to  me, 
and  I  literally  shook  with  fear  as  I  hastened  on. 
What  would  I  have  given  to  have  had  the  once 
faithful  Yvonne  by  my  side!  Presently  I  came 
to  the  crossing  of  the  Boulevard  Raspail,  and  this 
boulevard,  equally  long,  uncharitable,  and  mourn- 
ful with  the  other,  endless,  stretching  to  infinity, 
filled  me  with  horror.  Yes,  with  the  horror  of 
solitude  in  a  vast  city.  Oh,  you  solitary,  you 
who  have  felt  that  horror  descending  upon  you, 


THE  MEETING  205 

desolating,  clutching,  and  chilling  the  heart,  you 
will  comprehend  me! 

At  the  corner  of  the  two  boulevards  was  a 
glowing  cafe,  the  Cafe  du  Dome,  with  a  row  of 
chairs  and  little  tables  in  front  of  its  windows. 
And  at  one  of  these  little  tables  sat  a  man,  gazing 
absently  at  a  green  glass  in  a  white  saucer.  I  had 
almost  gone  past  him  when  some  instinct  prompted 
me  to  the  bravery  of  looking  at  him  again.  He 
was  a  stoutish  man,  apparently  aged  about  forty- 
five,  very  fair,  with  a  puffed  face  and  melancholy 
eyes.  And  then  it  was  as  though  someone  had 
shot  me  in  the  breast.  It  was  as  if  I  must  fall 
down  and  die  —  as  if  the  sensations  which  I  ex- 
perienced were  too  acute,  too  elemental  for  me 
to  support.  I  have  never  borne  a  child,  but  I 
imagine  that  the  woman  who  becomes  a  mother 
may  feel  as  I  felt  then,  staggered  at  hitherto  un- 
suspected possibilities  of  sensation.  I  stopped. 
I  clung  to  the  nearest  table.  There  was  ice  on 
my  shuddering  spine,  and  a  dew  on  my  forehead. 

"Magda!"  breathed  the  man. 

He  had  raised  his  eyes  to  mine. 

It  was  Diaz,  after  ten  years. 

At  first  I  had  not  recognized  him.  Instead  of 
ten,  he  seemed  twenty  years  older.  I  searched 
in  his  features  for  the  man  I  had  known,  as  the 
returned  traveller  searches  the  scene  of  his  child- 


206  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

hood  for  remembered  landmarks.  Yes,  it  was 
Diaz,  though  time  had  laid  a  heavy  hand  on  him. 
But  the  magic  of  his  eyes  was  not  effaced,  and  when 
he  smiled  youth  reappeared. 

"It  is  I,"  I  murmured. 

He  got  up,  and  in  doing  so  shook  the  table, 
and  his  glass  was  overturned,  and  scattered  itself 
in  fragments  on  the  asphalte.  At  the  noise  a 
waiter  ran  out  of  the  cafe,  and  Diaz,  blushing  and 
obviously  making  a  great  effort  at  self-control, 
gave  him  an  order. 

"I  should  have  known  you  anywhere,"  said 
Diaz  to  me,  taking  my  hand,  as  the  waiter  went. 

The  ineptitude  of  the  speech  was  such  that  I 
felt  keenly  sorry  for  him.  I  was  not  in  the  least 
hurt.  My  sympathy  enveloped  him.  The  posi- 
tion was  so  difficult,  and  he  had  seemed  so  pa- 
thetic, so  weighed  down  by  sadness,  sitting  there 
alone  on  the  pavement  of  the  vast  nocturnal 
boulevard,  that  I  wanted  to  comfort  him  and 
soothe  him,  and  to  restore  him  to  all  the  brilliancy 
of  his  first  period.  It  appeared  to  me  unjust  and 
cruel  that  the  wheels  of  life  should  have  crushed 
him  too.  And  so  I  said,  smiling  as  well  as  I  could: 

"And  I  you." 

"Won't  you  sit  down  here?"  he  suggested, 
avoiding  my  eyes. 

And  thus  I  found  myself  seated  outside  a  cafe, 


THE  MEETING  207 

at  night,  conspicuous  for  all  Montparnasse  to  see. 
We  never  know  what  may  lie  in  store  for  us  at 
the  next  turning  of  existence. 

"Then  I  am  not  much  changed,  you  think?" 
he  ventured,  in  an  anxious  tone. 

"No,"  I  lied.  "You  are  perhaps  a  little  stouter. 
That's  all." 

How  hard  it  was  to  talk!  How  lamentably 
self-conscious  we  were!  How  unequal  to  the 
situation!  We  did  not  know  what  to  say. 

"You  are  far  more  beautiful  than  ever  you 
were,"  he  said,  looking  at  me  for  an  instant. 
"You  are  a  woman;  you  were  a  girl  —  then." 

The  waiter  brought  another  glass  and  saucer, 
and  a  second  waiter  followed  him  with  a  bottle, 
from  which  he  poured  a  greenish-yellow  liquid 
into  the  glass. 

"What  will  you  have?"  Diaz  asked  me. 

"Nothing,  thank  you,"  I  said  quickly. 

To  sit  outside  the  cafe  was  already  much.  It 
would  have  been  impossible  for  me  to  drink  there. 

"Ah!  as  you  please,  as  you  please,"  Diaz  snapped. 
"I  beg  your  pardon." 

"Poor  fellow!"  I  reflected.  "He  must  be  suffer- 
ing from  nervous  irritability."  And  aloud,  "I'm 
not  thirsty,  thank  you,"  as  nicely  as  possible. 

He  smiled  beautifully;  the  irritability  had  passed. 

"It's  awfully  kind  of  you  to  sit  down  here  with 


208  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

me,"  he  said,  in  a  lower  voice.  "I  suppose  you've 
heard  about  me?" 

He  drank  half  the  contents  of  the  glass. 

"I  read  in  the  papers  some  years  ago  that  you 
were  suffering  from  neurasthenia  and  nervous 
breakdown,"  I  replied.  "I  was  very  sorry." 

"Yes,"  he  said;  "nervous  breakdown  —  nervous 
breakdown." 

"You  haven't  been  playing  lately,  have 
you?" 

"It  is  more  than  two  years  since  I  played.  And 
if  you  had  heard  me  that  time!  My  God!" 

"But  surely  you  have  tried  some  cure?" 

"Cure!"  he  repeated  after  me.  "There's  no 
cure.  Here  I  am!  Me!" 

His  glass  was  empty.  He  tapped  on  the 
window  behind  us,  and  the  procession  of  waiters 
occurred  again,  and  Diaz  received  a  third  glass, 
which  now  stood  on  three  saucers. 

"You'll  excuse  me,"  he  said,  sipping  slowly. 

"I'm  not  very  well  to-night.  And  you've 

Why  did  you  run  away  from  me?  I  wanted  to 
find  you,  but  I  couldn't." 

"Please  do  not  let  us  talk  about  that,"  I  stopped 
him.  "I  —  I  must  go." 

"Oh,  of  course,  if  I've  offended  you " 

"No,"  I  said;  "I'm  not  at  all  offended.  But 
I  think " 


THE  MEETING  209 

"Then,  if  you  aren't  offended,  stop  a  little,  and 
let  me  see  you  home.  You're  sure  you  won't 
have  anything?" 

I  shook  my  head,  wishing  that  he  would  not 
drink  so  much.  I  thought  it  could  not  be  good 
for  his  nerves. 

"Been  in  Paris  long?"  he  asked  me,  with  a 
slightly  confused  utterance.  "Staying  in  this 
quarter?  Many  English  and  Americans  here." 

Then,  in  setting  down  the  glass,  he  upset  it, 
and  it  smashed  on  the  pavement  like  the  first 
one. 

"Damn!"  he  exclaimed,  staring  forlornly  at  the 
broken  glass,  as  if  in  the  presence  of  some  irrep- 
arable misfortune.  And  before  I  could  put  in 
a  word,  he  turned  to  me  with  a  silly  smile,  and 
approaching  his  face  to  mine  till  his  hat  touched 
the  brim  of  my  hat,  he  said  thickly:  "After  all, 
you  know,  I'm  the  greatish  pianist  in  the  world." 

The  truth  struck  me  like  a  blow.  In  my 
amazing  ignorance  of  certain  aspects  of  life  I  had 
not  suspected  it.  Diaz  was  drunk.  The  ignominy 
of  it!  The  tragedy  of  it!  He  was  drunk.  He 
had  fallen  to  the  beast.  I  drew  back  from  that 
hot,  reeking  face. 

"You  don't  think  I  am?"  he  muttered.  "You 
think  young  What's-his-name  can  play  Ch  — 
Chopin  better  than  me?  Is  that  it?" 


210  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

I  wanted  to  run  away,  to  cease  to  exist,  to  hide 
with  my  shame  in  some  deep  abyss.  And  there 
I  was  on  the  boulevard,  next  to  this  animal, 
sharing  his  table  and  the  degradation!  And  I 
could  not  move.  There  are  people  so  gifted  that 
in  a  dilemma  they  always  know  exactly  the  wisest 
course  to  adopt.  But  I  did  not  know.  This 
part  of  my  story  gives  me  infinite  pain  to  write, 
and  yet  I  must  write  it,  though  I  cannot  persuade 
myself  to  write  it  in  full;  the  details  would  be  too 
repulsive.  Nevertheless,  forget  not  that  I  lived  it. 

He  put  his  face  to  mine  again,  and  began  to 
stammer  something,  and  I  drew  away. 

"You  are  ashamed  of  me,  madam,"  he  said 
sharply. 

"I  think  you  are  not  quite  yourself  —  not  quite 
well,"  I  replied. 

"You  mean  I  am  drunk." 

"I  mean  what  I  say.  You  are  not  quite  well. 
Please  do  not  twist  my  words." 

"You  mean  I  am  drunk,"  he  insisted,  raising  his 
voice.  "I  am  not  drunk;  I  have  never  been 
drunk.  That  I  can  swear  with  my  hand  on  my 
heart.  But  you  are  ashamed  of  being  seen  with 
me. 

"I  think  you  ought  to  go  home,"  I  suggested. 

"That  is  only  to  get  rid  of  me!"  he  cried. 

"No,  no,"  I  appealed  to  him  persuasively.     "Do 


THE  MEETING  211 

not  wound  me.  I  will  go  with  you  as  far  as 
your  house,  if  you  like.  You  are  too  ill  to  be 
alone." 

At  that  moment  an  empty  open  cab  strolled  by, 
and,  without  pausing  for  his  answer,  I  signalled 
the  driver.  My  heart  beat  wildly.  My  spirit  was 
in  an  uproar.  But  I  was  determined  not  to 
desert  him,  not  to  abandon  him  to  a  public  dis- 
grace. I  rose  from  my  seat. 

"You're  very  good,"  he  said,  in  a  new  voice. 

The  cab  had  stopped. 

"Come!"  I  entreated  him. 

He  rapped  uncertainly  on  the  window,  and 
then,  as  the  waiter  did  not  immediately  appear,  he 
threw  some  silver  on  the  table,  and  aimed  himself 
in  the  direction  of  the  cab.  I  got  in.  Diaz 
slipped  on  the  step. 

"I've  forgotten  somethin',"  he  complained. 
"What  is  it?  My  umbrella  —  yes,  my  umbrella  — 
pepin,  as  they  say  here.  'Scuse  me  moment." 

His  umbrella  was,  in  fact,  lying  under  a  chair. 
He  stooped  with  difficulty  and  regained  it,  and 
then  the  waiter,  who  had  at  length  arrived, 
helped  him  into  the  cab,  and  he  sank  like  a  mass 
of  inert  clay  on  my  skirts. 

"Tell  the  driver  the  address,"  I  whispered. 

The  driver,  with  head  turned  and  a  grin  on  his 
face,  was  waiting. 


212  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

"Rue  de  Douai,"  said  Diaz  sullenly. 

"What  number?"  the  driver  asked. 

"Does  that  regard  you?"  Diaz  retorted  crossly 
in  French.  "I  will  tell  you  later." 

"Tell  him  now,"  I  pleaded. 

"Well,  to  oblige  you,  I  will.  Twenty-seven. 
But  what  I  can't  stand  is  the  impudence  of  these 
fellows." 

The  driver  winked  at  me. 

"Just  so,"  I  soothed  Diaz,  and  we  drove  off. 

I  have  never  been  happier  than  in  unhappiness. 
Happiness  is  not  joy,  and  it  is  not  tranquillity. 
It  is  something  deeper  and  something  more  dis- 
turbing. Perhaps  it  is  an  acute  sense  of  life,  a 
realization  of  one's  secret  being,  a  continual 
renewal  of  the  mysterious  savour  of  .existence. 
As  I  crossed  Paris  with  the  drunken  Diaz  leaning 
clumsily  against  my  shoulder,  I  was  profoundly 
unhappy.  I  was  desolated  by  the  sight  of  this 
ruin,  and  yet  I  was  happier  than  I  had  been  since 
Frank  died.  I  had  glimpses  and  intimations  of 
the  baffling  essence  of  our  human  lives  here, 
strange,  fleeting  comprehensions  of  the  eternal 
wonder  and  the  eternal  beauty.  ...  In  vain, 
professional  writer  as  I  am,  do  I  try  to  express 
myself.  What  I  want  to  say  cannot  be  said; 
but  those  who  have  truly  lived  will  understand. 

We  passed  over  the  Seine,  lighted  and  asleep  in 


THE  MEETING  213 

the  exquisite  Parisian  night,  and  the  rattling  of 
the  cab  on  the  cobble-stones  roused  Diaz  from  his 
stupor. 

"Where  are  we?"  he  asked. 

"Just  going  through  the  Place  du  Carrousel," 
I  replied. 

"I  don't  know  how  I  got  to  the  other  s-side  of 
the  river,"  he  said.  "Don't  remember.  So  you're 
coming  home  with  me,  eh?  You  aren't  'shamed 
of  me?" 

"You  are  hurting  me,"  I  said  coldly,  "with  your 
elbow." 

"Oh,  a  thousand  pardons!  a  thous'  parnds, 
Magda!  That  isn't  your  real  name,  is  it?" 

He  sat  upright  and  turned  his  face  to  glance  at 
mine  with  a  fatuous  smile;  but  I  would  not  look 
at  him.  I  kept  my  eyes  straight  in  front.  Then 
a  swerve  of  the  carriage  swung  his  body  away 
from  me,  and  he  subsided  into  the  corner.  The 
intoxication  was  gaining  on  him  every  minute. 

"What  shall  I  do  with  him?"  I  thought. 

I  blushed  as  we  drove  up  the  Avenue  de  1'Opera 
and  across  the  Grand  Boulevard,  for  it  seemed 
to  me  that  all  the  gay  loungers  must  observe  Diaz' 
condition.  We  followed  darker  thoroughfares,  and 
at  last  the  cab,  after  climbing  a  hill,  stopped  be- 
fore a  house  in  a  street  that  appeared  rather  untidy 
and  irregular.  I  got  out  first,  and  Diaz  stumbled 


214  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

after  me,  while  two  women  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  road  stayed  curiously  to  watch  us.  Hastily 
I  opened  my  purse  and  gave  the  driver  a  five-franc- 
piece,  and  he  departed  before  Diaz  could  decide  what 
to  say.  I  had  told  him  to  go. 

I  did  not  wish  to  tell  the  driver  to  go.  I  told 
him  in  spite  of  myself. 

Diaz,  grumbling  inarticulately,  pulled  the  bell 
of  the  great  door  of  the  house.  But  he  had  to  ring 
several  times  before  finally  the  door  opened;  and  each 
second  was  a  year  for  me,  waiting  there  with  him 
in  the  street.  And  when  the  door  opened  he  was 
leaning  against  it,  and  so  he  pitched  forward  into 
the  gloom  of  the  archway.  A  laugh  —  the  loud, 
unrestrained  laugh  of  the  courtesan  —  came  from 
across  the  street. 

The  archway  was  as  black  as  night. 

"Shut  the  door,  will  you?"  I  heard  Diaz'  voice. 
"I  can't  see  it.  Where  are  you?" 

But  I  was  not  going  to  shut  the  door. 

"Have  you  got  a  servant  here?"  I  asked 
him. 

"She  comsh  in  the  mornings,"  he  replied. 

"Then  there  is  no  one  in  your  flat?" 

"Not  a  shoul,"  said  Diaz.     "Needn't  be  'fraid." 

"I'm  not  afraid,"  I  said.  "But  I  wanted  to 
know.  Which  floor  is  it?" 

"Third.     I'll  light  a  match." 


THE  MEETING  215 

Then  I  pushed  to  the  door,  whose  automatic 
latch  clicked.  We  were  fast  in  the  courtyard. 

Diaz  dropped  his  matches  in  attempting  to 
strike  one.  The  metal  box  bounced  on  the  tiles. 
I  bent  down  and  groped  with  both  hands  till 
I  found  it.  And  presently  we  began  painfully 
to  ascend  the  staircase,  Diaz  holding  his  umbrella 
and  the  rail,  and  I  striking  matches  from  time 
to  time.  We  were  on  the  second  landing  when 
I  heard  the  bell  ring  again,  and  the  banging  of 
the  front-door,  and  then  voices  at  the  foot  of  the 
staircase.  I  trembled  lest  we  should  be  over- 
taken, and  I  would  have  hurried  Diaz  on,  but 
he  would  not  be  hurried.  Happily,  as  we  were 
halfway  between  the  second  and  third  story,  the 
man  and  the  girl  whose  voices  I  heard  stopped 
at  the  second.  I  caught  sight  of  them  momen- 
tarily through  the  banisters.  The  man  was 
striking  matches  as  I  had  been.  "C'est  id"  the 
girl  whispered.  She  was  dressed  in  blue  with  a 
very  large  hat.  She  put  a  key  in  the  door  where 
they  had  stopped,  and  then  our  matches  went 
out  simultaneously.  The  door  shut,  and  Diaz 
and  I  were  alone  on  the  staircase  again.  I  struck 
another  match;  we  struggled  on. 

When  I  had  taken  his  key  from  Diaz'  helpless 
hand,  and  opened  his  door  and  guided  him  within, 
and  closed  the  door  definitely  upon  the  outer 


216  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

world,  I  breathed  a  great  sigh.  Every  turn  of 
the  stair  had  been  a  station  of  the  cross  for  me. 
We  were  now  in  utter  darkness.  The  classical 
effluvium  of  inebriety  mingled  with  the  classical 
odour  of  the  furnished  lodging.  But  I  cared  not. 
I  had  at  last  successfully  hidden  his  shame.  No 
one  could  witness  it  now  but  me.  So  I  was  glad. 

Neither  of  us  said  anything  as,  still  with  the 
aid  of  matches,  I  penetrated  into  the  flat.  Silently 
I  peered  about  until  I  perceived  a  pair  of  candles, 
which  I  lighted.  Diaz,  with  his  hat  on  his  head 
and  his  umbrella  clasped  tightly  in  his  hand,  fell 
into  a  chair.  We  glanced  at  each  other. 

"You  had  better  go  to  bed,"  I  suggested.  "Take 
your  hat  off.  You  will  feel  better  without  it." 

He  did  not  move,  and  I  approached  him  and 
gently  removed  his  hat.  I  then  touched  the 
umbrella. 

"No,  no,  no!"  he  cried  suddenly;  "I'm  always 
losing  this  umbrella,  and  I  won't  let  it  out  of  my 
sight." 

"As  you  wish,"  I  replied  coldly. 

I  was  standing  by  him  when  he  got  up  with 
a  surprising  lurch  and  put  a  hand  on  my  shoulder. 
He  evidently  meant  to  kiss  me.  I  kept  him  at 
arm's  length,  feeling  a  sort  of  icy  anger. 

"Go  to  bed,"  I  repeated  fiercely.  "It  is  the 
only  place  for  you." 


THE  MEETING  217 

He  made  inarticulate  noises  in  his  throat,  and 
ultimately  achieved  the  remark: 

"You're  very  hard,  Magda." 

Then  he  bent  himself  towards  the  next  room. 

"You  will  want  a  candle,"  I  said,  with  bitter- 
ness. "No;  I  will  carry  it.  Let  me  go  first." 

I  preceded  him  through  a  tiny  salon  into  the 
bedroom,  and,  leaving  him  there  with  one  candle, 
came  back  into  the  first  room.  The  whole  place 
was  deplorable,  though  not  more  deplorable  than 
I  had  expected  from  the  look  of  the  street  and 
the  house  and  the  stairs  and  the  girl  with  the 
large  hat.  It  was  small,  badly  arranged,  dis- 
ordered, ugly,  bare,  comfortless,  and,  if  not  very 
dirty,  certainly  not  clean;  not  a  home,  but  a 
kennel  —  a  kennel  furnished  with  chairs  and  spotted 
mirrors  and  spotted  engravings  and  a  small  upright 
piano;  a  kennel  whose  sides  were  covered  with 
enormous  red  poppies,  and  on  whose  floor  was 
something  which  had  once  been  a  carpet;  a  kennel 
fitted  with  windows  and  curtains;  a  kennel  with 
actually  a  bed!  It  was  the  ready-made  human 
kennel  of  commerce,  which  every  large  city 
supplies  wholesale  in  tens  of  thousands  to  its 
victims.  In  that  street  there  were  hundreds 
such;  in  the  house  alone  there  were  probably 
a  score  at  least.  Their  sole  virtue  was  their 
privacy.  Ah,  the  blessedness  of  the  sacred  outer 


218  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

door,  which  not  even  the  tyrant  concierge  might 
violate!  I  thought  of  all  the  other  interiors  of 
the  house,  floor  above  floor,  and  serried  one  against 
another  —  vile,  mean,  squalid,  cramped,  unlovely, 
frowsy,  fetid;  but  each  lighted  and  intensely 
alive  with  the  interplay  of  hearts;  each  cloistered, 
a  secure  ground  where  the  instincts  that  move 
the  world  might  show  themselves  naturally  and  in 
secret.  There  was  something  tragically  beautiful 
in  that. 

I  had  heard  uncomfortable  sounds  from  the 
bedroom.  Then  Diaz  called  out: 

"It's  no  use.     Can't  do  it.     Can't  get  into  bed." 

I  went  directly  to  him.  He  sat  on  the  bed, 
still  clasping  the  umbrella,  one  arm  out  of  his 
coat.  His  gloomy  and  discouraged  face  was  the 
face  of  a  man  who  retires  baffled  from  some  tre- 
mendously complicated  problem. 

"Put  down  your  umbrella,"  I  said.  "Don't  be 
foolish." 

"I'm  not  foolish,"  he  retorted  irritably.  "Don't 
want  to  loosh  thish  umbrella  again." 

"Well  then,"  I  said,  "hold  it  in  the  other  hand, 
and  I  will  help  you." 

This  struck  him  as  a  marvellous  idea,  one  of 
those  discoveries  that  revolutionize  science,  and 
he  instantly  obeyed.  He  was  now  very  drunk. 
He  was  nauseating.  The  conventions  which 


THE  MEETING  219 

society  has  built  up  in  fifty  centuries  ceased 
suddenly  to  exist.  It  was  impossible  that  they 
should  exist  —  there  in  that  cabin,  where  we  were 
alone  together,  screened,  shut  in.  I  lost  even  the 
sense  of  convention.  I  was  no  longer  disgusted. 
Everything  that  was  seemed  natural,  ordinary, 
normal.  I  became  his  mother.  I  became  his 
hospital  nurse.  And  at  length  he  lay  in  bed, 
clutching  the  umbrella  to  his  breast.  Nothing 
had  induced  him  to  loose  it  from  both  hands  at 
once.  The  priceless  value  of  the  umbrella  was  the 
one  clearly-defined  notion  that  I-Mumiaated  his 
poor  devastated  brain.  I  left  him  to  his  inanimate 
companion. 


CHAPTER  II 

THROUGH  THE  NIGHT 

1  SHOULD  have  left  then,  though  I  had  a 
wish  not  to  leave.  But  I  was  prevented 
from  going  by  the  fear  of  descending  those 
sinister  stairs  alone,  and  the  necessity  of  calling 
aloud  to  the  concierge  in  order  to  get  out  through 
the  main  door,  and  the  possible  difficulties  in  finding 
a  cab  in  that  region  at  that  hour.  I  knew  that  I 
could  not  have  borne  to  walk  even  to  the  end  of 
the  street  unprotected.  So  I  stayed  where  I  was, 
seated  in  a  chair  near  the  window  of  the  larger  room, 
saturating  myself  in  the  vague  and  heavy  flood 
of  sadness  that  enwraps  the  fretful,  passionate 
city  in  the  night  —  the  night  when  the  commonest 
noises  seem  to  carry  some  mystic  message  to  the 
listening  soul,  the  night  when  truth  walks  abroad 
naked  and  whispers. 

A  gas-lamp  threw  its  radiance  on  the  ceiling 
in  bars  through  the  slits  of  the  window-shutters, 
and  then,  far  in  the  middle  wilderness  of  the  night, 
the  lamp  was  extinguished  by  a  careful  munici- 
pality, and  I  was  left  in  utter  darkness.  Long 


THROUGH  THE  NIGHT  221 

since  the  candles  had  burnt  away.  I  grew  silly 
and  sentimental,  and  pictured  the  city  in  feverish 
sleep,  gaining  with  difficulty  inadequate  strength 
for  the  morrow  —  as  if  the  city  had  not  been  living 
this  life  for  centuries  and  did  not  know  exactly 
what  it  was  about!  And  then,  sure  as  I  had  been 
that  I  could  not  sleep,  I  woke  up,  and  I  could  see 
the  outline  of  the  piano.  Dawn  had  begun.  And 
not  a  sound  disturbed  the  street,  and  not  a  sound 
came  from  Diaz'  bed-room.  As  of  old,  he  slept 
with  the  tranquillity  of  a  child. 

And  after  a  time  I  could  see  the  dust  on  the 
piano  and  on  the  polished  floor  under  the  table. 
The  night  had  passed,  and  it  appeared  to  be  almost 
a  miracle  that  the  night  had  passed,  and  that  I 
had  lived  through  it  and  was  much  the  same  Car- 
lotta  still.  I  gently  opened  the  window  and  pushed 
back  the  shutters.  A  young  woman,  tall,  with  a 
superb  bust,  clothed  in  blue,  was  sweeping  the  foot- 
path in  long,  dignified  strokes  of  a  broom.  She 
went  slowly  from  my  ken.  Nothing  could  have 
been  more  prosaic,  more  sane,  more  astringent. 
And  yet  only  a  few  hours  —  and  it  had  been  night, 
strange,  voluptuous  night!  And  even  now  a  thou- 
sand thousand  pillows  were  warm  and  crushed  under 
their  burden  of  unconscious  dreaming  souls.  But 
that  tall  woman  must  go  to  bed  in  day,  and  rise  to 
meet  the  first  wind  of  the  morning,  and  perhaps 


222  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

she  had  never  known  the  sweet  poison  of  the  night. 
I  sank  back  into  my  chair.  .  . 

There  was  a  sharp,  decisive  sound  of  a  key  in 
the  lock  of  the  entrance-door.  I  jumped  up,  fully 
awake,  with  a  beating  heart  and  blushing  face. 
Someone  was  invading  the  flat.  Someone  would 
catch  me  there. 

Of  course  it  was  his  servant.  I  had  entirely 
forgotten  her. 

We  met  in  the  little  passage.  She  was  a  stout 
creature  and  appeared  to  fill  the  flat.  She  did 
not  seem  very  surprised  at  the  sight  of  me,  and 
she  eyed  me  with  the  frigid  disdain  of  one  who 
conforms  to  a  certain  code  for  one  who  does  not 
conform  to  it.  She  sat  in  judgment  on  my  well- 
hung  skirt  and  the  rings  on  my  fingers  and  the 
wickedness  in  my  breast,  and  condemned  me  to 
everlasting  obloquy. 

"Madame  is  going?"  she  asked  coldly,  holding 
open  the  door. 

"No,  madame,"  I  said.  "Are  you  the  femme  de 
menage  of  monsieur?" 

"Yes,  madame." 

"Monsieur  is  ill,"  I  said,  deciding  swiftly  what 
to  do.  "He  does  not  wish  to  be  disturbed.  He 
would  like  you  to  return  at  two  o'clock." 

Long  before  two  I  should  have  departed. 

"Monsieur    knows    well    that    I    have    another 


THROUGH  THE  NIGHT  223 

menage  from  twelve  to  two,"  protested  the 
woman. 

"Three  o'clock,  then,"  I  said. 

"Bien,  madame,"  said  she  and,  producing  the 
contents  of  a  reticule:  "Here  are  the  bread,  the 
butter,  the  milk,  and  the  newspaper,  madame." 

"Thank  you,  madame." 

I  took  the  things,  and  she  left,  and  I  shut  the 
door  and  bolted  it. 

In  anticipation,  the  circumstances  of  such  an 
encounter  would  have  caused  me  infinite  trouble 
of  spirit.  "But  after  all  it  was  not  so  very  dread- 
ful," I  thought,  as  I  fastened  the  door.  "Do  I 
care  for  his  femme  de  menage?" 

The  great  door  of  the  house  would  be  open  now, 
and  the  stairs  no  longer  affrighting,  and  I  might 
slip  unobserved  away.  But  I  could  not  bring 
myself  to  leave  until  I  had  spoken  with  Diaz,  and 
I  would  not  wake  him.  It  was  nearly  noon  when 
he  stirred.  I  heard  his  movements,  and  a  light 
moaning  sigh,  and  he  called  me. 

"Are  you  there,  Magda?" 

How  feeble  and  appealing  his  voice! 

For  answer  I  stepped  into  his  bedroom. 

The  eye  that  has  learned  to  look  life  full  in  the 
face  without  a  quiver  of  the  lid  should  find  nothing 
repulsive.  Everything  that  is,  is  the  ordered  and 
calculable  result  of  environment.  Nothing  can  be 


224          THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

abhorrent,  nothing  blameworthy,  nothing  contrary 
to  nature.  Can  we  exceed  nature  ?  In  the  presence 
of  the  primeval  and  ever-continuing  forces  of  nature, 
can  we  maintain  our  fantastic  conceptions  of  sin 
and  of  justice?  We  are,  and  that  is  all  we  should 
dare  to  say.  And  yet,  when  I  saw  Diaz  stretched 
on  that  miserable  bed  my  first  movement  was  one 
of  physical  disgust.  He  had  not  shaved  for  several 
days.  His  hair  was  like  a  doormat.  His  face  was 
unclean  and  puffed;  his  lips  full  and  cracked;  his 
eyes  all  discoloured.  If  aught  can  be  vile,  he  was 
vile.  If  aught  can  be  obscene,  he  was  obscene. 
His  limbs  twitched;  his  features  were  full  of  woe  and 
desolation  and  abasement. 

He  looked  at  me  heavily,  mournfully. 

"Diaz,  Diaz!"  said  my  soul.  "Have  you  come 
to  this?" 

A  great  and  overmastering  pity  seized  me,  and 
I  went  to  him,  and  laid  my  hand  gently  on  his. 
He  was  so  nervous  and  tremulous  that  he  drew 
away  his  hand  as  if  I  burnt  it. 

"Oh,  Magda,"  he  murmured,  "my  head!  There 
was  a  piece  of  hot  brick  in  my  mouth,  and  I  tried 
to  take  it  out.  But  it  was  my  tongue.  Can  I 
have  some  tea?  Will  you  give  me  some  cold  water 
first?" 

Strange  that  the  frank  and  simple  way  in  which 
he  accepted  my  presence  there,  and  assumed  my 


THROUGH  THE  NIGHT  225 

willingness  to  serve  him,  filled  me  with  a  new  joy! 
He  said  nothing  of  the  night.  I  think  that  Diaz 
was  one  of  the  few  men  who  are  strong  enough  never 
to  regret  the  past.  If  he  was  melancholy,  it  was 
merely  because  he  suffered  bodily  in  the  present. 

I  gave  him  water,  and  he  thanked  me. 

"Now  I  will  make  some  tea,"  I  said. 

And  I  went  into  the  tiny  kitchen  and  looked 
around,  lifting  my  skirts. 

"Can  you  find  the  things?"  he  called  out. 

"Yes,"  I  said. 

"What's  all  that  splashing?"  he  inquired. 

"I'm  washing  a  saucepan,"  I  said. 

"I  never  have  my  meals  here,"  he  called.  "Only 
tea.  There  are  two  taps  to  the  gas-stove  —  one 
a  little  way  up  the  chimney." 

Yes,  I  was  joyous,  actively  so.  I  brought  the 
tea  to  the  bedroom  with  a  glad  smile.  I  had  put 
two  cups  on  the  tray,  which  I  placed  on  the  night- 
table;  and  there  were  some  biscuits.  I  sat  at  the 
foot  of  the  bed  while  we  drank.  And  the  um- 
brella, unperceived  by  Diaz,  lay  with  its  handle 
on  a  pillow,  ludicrous  and  yet  accusing. 

"You  are  an  angel,"  said  Diaz. 

"Don't  call  me  that,"  I  protested. 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  I  wish  it,"  I  said.  "Angel"  was  Ispen- 
love's  word. 


226  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

"Then,  what  shall  I  call  you?" 

"My  name  is  Carlotta  Peel,"  I  said.  "Not 
Magdalen  at  all." 

It  was  astounding,  incredible,  that  he  should  be 
learning  my  name  then  for  the  first  time. 

"  I  shall  always  call  you  Magda,"  he  responded. 

"And  now  I  must  go,"  I  stated,  when  I  had 
explained  to  him  about  the  servant. 

"But  you'll  come  back?"  he  cried. 

No  question  of  his  coming  to  me!  I  must  come 
to  him! 

"To  a  place  like  this?"  I  demanded. 

Unthinkingly  I  put  into  my  voice  some  of  the 
distaste  I  felt  for  his  deplorable  apartments,  and 
he  was  genuinely  hurt.  I  believe  that  in  all  honesty 
he  deemed  his  apartments  to  be  quite  adequate 
and  befitting.  His  sensibilities  had  been  so  dulled. 

He  threw  up  his  head. 

"Of  course,"  he  said,  "if  you " 

"No,  no!"  I  stopped  him  quickly.  "I  will  come 
here.  I  was  only  teasing  you.  Let  me  see.  I'll 
come  back  at  four,  just  to  see  how  you  are. 
Won't  you  get  up  in  the  meantime?" 

He  smiled,  placated. 

"I  may  do,"  he  said.  "I'll  try  to.  But  in  case 
I  don't,  will  you  take  my  key?  Where  did  you 
put  it  last  night?" 

"I  have  it,"  I  said. 


THROUGH  THE  NIGHT  227 

He  summoned  me  to  him  just  as  I  was  opening 
the  door. 

"Magda!" 

"What  is  it?" 

I  returned. 

"You  are  magnificent,"  he  replied,  with  charming, 
impulsive  eagerness,  his  eyes  resting  upon  me  long. 
He  was  the  old  Diaz  again.  "I  can't  thank  you. 
But  when  you  come  back  I  shall  play  to  you." 

I  smiled. 

"Till  four  o'clock,"  I  said. 

"Magda,"  he  called  again,  just  as  I  was  leaving, 
"bring  one  of  your  books  with  you,  will  you?" 

I  hesitated,  with  my  hand  on  the  door.  When 
I  gave  him  my  name  he  had  made  no  sign  that  it 
conveyed  to  him  anything  out  of  the  ordinary. 
That  was  exactly  like  Diaz. 

"Have  you  read  any  of  them?"  I  asked  loudly, 
without  moving  from  the  door. 

"No,"  he  answered.  "But  I  have  heard  of 
them." 

"Really!"  I  said,  keeping  my  tone  free  from 
irony.  "Well,  I  will  not  bring  you  one  of  my  books." 

"Why  not?" 

I  looked  hard  at  the  door  in  front  of  me. 

"For  you  I  will  be  nothing  but  a  woman,"  I  said. 

And  I  fled  down  the  stairs  and  past  the  con- 
cierge swiftly  into  the  street,  as  anxious  as  a  thief 


228  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

to  escape  notice.  I  got  a  fiacre  at  once,  and  drove 
away.  I  would  not  analyze  my  heart.  I  could 
not.  I  could  but  savour  the  joy,  sweet  and  fresh, 
that  welled  up  in  it  as  from  some  secret  source. 
I  was  so  excited  that  I  observed  nothing  outside 
myself,  and  when  the  cab  stopped  in  front  of  my 
hotel,  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  journey  had  occupied 
scarcely  a  few  seconds.  Do  you  imagine  I  was 
saddened  by  the  painful  spectacle  of  Diaz'  collapse 
in  life!  No!  I  only  knew  that  he  needed  sympathy, 
and  that  I  could  give  it  to  him  with  both  hands. 
I  could  give,  give!  And  the  last  thing  that  the 
egotist  in  me  told  me  before  it  expired  was  that  I 
was  worthy  to  give.  My  longing  to  assuage  the 
bt  of  Diaz  became  almost  an  anguish. 


CHAPTER  HI 

BY  THE  BED  OF  THE  SLEEPER 

I  RETURNED  at  about  half-past  five,  bright 
and  eager,  with  vague  anticipations.  I 
seemed  to  have  become  used  to  the  house.  It 
no  longer  offended  me,  and  I  had  no  shame  in 
entering  it.  I  put  the  key  into  the  door  of  Diaz* 
flat  with  a  clear,  high  sense  of  pleasure.  He  had 
entrusted  me  with  his  key;  I  could  go  in  as  I 
pleased;  I  need  have  no  fear  of  inconveniencing 
him,  of  coming  at  the  wrong  moment.  It  seemed 
wonderful!  And  as  I  turned  the  key  and  pushed 
open  the  door  my  sole  wish  was  to  be  of  service  to 
him,  to  comfort  him,  to  render  his  life  less 
forlorn. 

"Here  I  am!"  I  cried,  shutting  the  door. 

There  was  no  answer. 

In  the  smaller  of  the  two  tiny  sitting-rooms 
the  piano,  which  had  been  closed,  was  open,  and  I 
saw  that  it  was  a  Pleyel.  But  both  rooms  were 
empty. 

"Are  you  still  in  bed,  then?"  I  said. 

There  was  still  no  answer. 
229 


230  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

I  went  cautiously  into  the  bedroom.  It,  too, 
was  empty.  The  bed  was  made,  and  the  flat 
generally  had  a  superficial  air  of  tidiness.  Evi- 
dently the  charwoman  had  been  and  departed; 
and  doubtless  Diaz  had  gone  out,  to  return  im- 
mediately. I  sat  down  in  the  chair  in  which  I 
had  spent  most  of  the  night.  I  took  off  my  hat 
and  put  it  by  the  side  of  a  tiny  satchel  which  I 
had  brought,  and  began  to  wait  for  him.  How 
delicious  it  would  be  to  open  the  door  to  him! 
He  would  notice  that  I  had  taken  off  my  hat,  and 
he  would  be  glad.  What  did  the  future,  the  im- 
mediate future,  hold  for  me? 

A  long  time  I  waited,  and  then  I  yawned  heavily, 
and  remembered  that  for  several  days  I  had  had 
scarcely  any  sleep.  I  shut  my  eyes  to  relieve  the 
tedium  of  waiting.  When  I  reopened  them,  dazed, 
and  startled  into  sudden  activity  by  mysterious 
angry  noises,  it  was  quite  dark.  I  tried  to  recall 
where  I  was,  and  to  decide  what  the  noises  could  be. 
I  regained  my  faculties  with  an  effort.  The  noises 
were  a  beating  on  the  door. 

"It  is  Diaz,"  I  said  to  myself;  "and  he  can't 
get  in!" 

And  I  felt  very  guilty  because  I  had  slept.  I 
must  have  slept  for  hours.  Groping  for  a  candle, 
I  lighted  it. 

"Coming!  coming!"  I  called  in  a  loud  voice. 


BY  THE  BED  OF  THE  SLEEPER     231 

And  I  went  into  the  passage  with  the  candle 
and  opened  the  door. 

It  was  Diaz.  The  gas  was  lighted  on  the  stairs. 
Between  that  and  my  candle  he  stood  conspicuous 
in  all  his  details.  Swaying  somewhat,  he  sup- 
ported himself  by  the  balustrade,  and  was  thus 
distant  about  two  feet  from  the  door.  He  was 
drunk  —  viciously  drunk;  and  in  an  instant  I 
knew  the  cruel  truth  concerning  him,  and  wondered 
that  I  had  not  perceived  it  before.  He  was  a  drunk- 
ard —  simply  that.  He  had  not  taken  to  drinking 
as  a  consequence  of  nervous  breakdown.  Nervous 
breakdown  was  a  euphemism  or  the  result  of  alco- 
holic excess.  I  saw  his  slow  descent  as  in  a  vision, 
and  everything  was  explained.  My  heart  leapt. 

"I  can  save  him,"  I  said  to  myself.  "I  can  re- 
store him." 

I  was  aware  of  the  extreme  difficulty  of  curing 
a  drunkard,  of  the  immense  proportion  of  failures. 
But,  I  thought,  if  a  woman  such  as  I  cannot  by  the 
lavishing  of  her  whole  soul  and  body  deliver  from 
no  mattter  what  fiend  a  man  such  as  Diaz,  then  the 
world  has  changed,  and  the  eternal  Aphrodite  is 
dead. 

"I  can  save  him!"  I  repeated. 

Oh,  heavenly  moment! 

"Aren't  you  coming  in?"  I  addressed  him  quietly. 
"I've  been  waiting  for  you." 


232  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

"Have  you?"  he  angrily  replied.  "I  waited 
long  enough  for  you." 

"Well,"  I  said,  "come  in." 

"Who  is  it?"  he  demanded.  "I  inzizt  —  who 
is  it?" 

"It's  I,"  I  answered;  "Magda." 

"That's  no'  wha'  I  mean,"  he  went  on.  "And 
wha's  more  —  you  know  it.  Who  is  it  addrezzes 
you,  madame?" 

"Why,"  I  humoured  him,  "it's  you,  of  course  — 
Diaz." 

There  was  the  sound  of  a  door  opening  on  one 
of  the  lower  storeys,  and  I  hoped  I  had  pacified 
him,  and  that  he  would  enter;  but  I  was  mistaken. 
He  stamped  his  foot  furiously  on  the  landing. 

"Diaz!"  he  protested,  shouting.  "Who  dares 
call  me  Diaz?  Wha's  my  full  name?" 

"Emilio  Diaz,"  I  murmured  meekly. 

"That's  better,"  he  grumbled.  "What  am  I?" 

I  hesitated. 

"Wha'  am  I?"  he  roared;  and  his  voice  went 
up  and  down  the  echoing  staircase.  "I  won't 
put  foot  ev'n  on  doormat  till  I'm  told  wha'  I  am 
here." 

"You  are  the  —  the  master,"  I  said.  "But  do 
come  in." 

"The  mas'r!         Mas'r  of  wha'?" 

"Master  of  the  pianoforte,  "I  answered  at  once. 


BY  THE  BED  OF  THE  SLEEPER     233 

He  smiled,  suddenly  appeased,  and  put  his  foot 
unsteadily  on  the  doormat. 

"Good!"  he  said.  "But,  un'stan,'  I  wouldn't 
ev'n  have  pu'  foot  on  doormat  —  no,  not  ev'n  on 
doormat " 

And  he  came  in,  and  I  shut  the  door,  and  I  was 
alone  with  my  wild  beast. 

"  Kiss  me,"  he  commanded. 

I  kissed  him  on  the  mouth. 

"You  don't  put  your  arms  roun'  me,"  he  growled. 

So  I  deposited  the  candle  on  the  floor,  and  put 
my  arms  round  his  neck,  standing  on  tip-toe,  and 
kissed  him  again. 

He  went  past  me,  staggering  and  growling, 
into  the  sitting-room  at  the  end  of  the  passage, 
and  furiously  banged  down  the  lid  of  the  piano, 
so  that  every  string  in  it  jangled  deafeningly. 

"Light  the  lamp,"  he  called  out. 

"In  one  second,"  I  said. 

I  locked  the  outer  door  on  the  inside,  slipped 
the  key  into  my  pocket,  and  picked  up  the  candle. 

"What  were  you  doing  out  there?"  he  demanded. 

"Nothing,"  I  said.  "I  had  to  pick  the  candle 
up." 

He  seized  my  hat  from  the  table  and  threw  it 
to  the  floor.  Then  he  sat  down. 

"Nex'  time,"  he  remarked,  "you'll  know  better'n 
to  keep  me  waiting." 


234  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

I  lighted  a  lamp. 

"I'm  very  sorry,"  I  said.  "Won't  you  go  to 
bed?" 

"I  shall  go  bed  when  I  want,"  he  answered. 
"I'm  thirsty.  In  the  cupboard  you'll  see  bottle. 
I'll  trouble  you  to  give  it  me,  with  a  glass  and  some 
water." 

"This  cupboard?"  I  said  questioningly,  opening 
a  cupboard  papered  to  match  the  rest  of  the 
wall. 

"Yes." 

"But  surely  you  can't  be  thirsty,  Diaz?"  I  pro- 
tested. 

"Must  I  repea'  wha'  I  said?"  he  glared  at  me. 
"I'm  thirsty.  Give  me  the  bottle." 

I  took  out  the  bottle  nearest  to  hand.  It  was 
of  a  dark  green  colour,  and  labelled.  "Extrait 
(T Absinthe.  Pernod  /Us." 

"Not  this  one,  Diaz?" 

"Yes,"  he  insisted.  "Give  it  me.  And  get  a 
glass  and  some  water." 

"No,"  I  said  firmly. 

"  Wha'  ?     You  won't  give  it  me  ?" 

"No." 

He  jumped  up  recklessly  and  faced  me.  His 
hat  fell  off  the  back  of  his  head. 

"Give  me  that  bottle!" 

His  breath  poisoned  the  room. 


BY  THE  BED  OF  THE  SLEEPER     235 

I  retreated  in  the  direction  of  the  window,  and 
put  my  hand  on  the  knob. 

"No,"  I  said. 

He  sprang  at  me,  but  not  before  I  had  opened 
the  window  and  thrown  out  the  bottle.  I  heard 
it  fall  in  the  roadway  with  a  crash  and  scattering 
of  glass.  Happily  it  had  harmed  no  one.  Diaz 
was  momentarily  checked.  He  hesitated.  I  eyed 
him  as  steadily  as  I  could,  closing  the  while  the 
window  behind  me  with  my  right  hand. 

"He  may  try  to  kill  me,"  I  thought. 

My  heart  was  thudding  against  my  dress,  not 
from  fear,  but  from  excitement.  My  situation 
seemed  impossible  to  me,  utterly  passing  belief. 
Yesterday  I  had  been  a  staid  spinster,  attended  by 
a  maid,  in  a  hotel  of  impeccable  propriety.  To- 
day I  had  locked  myself  up  alone  with  a  riotous 
drunkard  in  a  vile  flat  in  a  notorious  Parisian  street. 
Was  I  mad?  What  force,  secret  and  powerful, 
had  urged  me  on?  .  .  .  And  there  was  the  foul 
drunkard,  with  clenched  hands  and  fiery  eyes, 
undecided  whether  or  not  to  murder  me.  And  I 
waited. 

He  moved  away,  inarticulately  grumbling,  and 
resumed  with  difficulty  his  hat. 

"Ver'  well,"  he  hiccupped  morosely,  "ver'  well; 
I'm  going.  Tha's  all." 

He  lurched  into  the  passage,  and  then  I  heard 


236  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

him  fumbling  a  long  time  with  the  outer  door.  He 
left  the  door  and  went  into  his  bedroom,  and  finally 
returned  to  me.  He  held  one  hand  behind  his  back. 
I  had  sunk  into  a  chair  by  the  small  table  on  which 
the  lamp  stood,  with  my  satchel  beside  it. 

"Now!"  he  said,  halting  in  front  of  me.  "You've 
locked  tha'  door.  I  can't  go  out." 

"Yes,"I  admitted. 

"Give  me  the  key." 

I  shook  my  head. 

"Give  me  the  key,"  he  cried.  "I  mus'  have  the 
key." 

I  shook  my  head. 

Then  he  showed  me  his  right  hand,  and  it  held  a 
revolver.  He  bent  slightly  over  the  table,  staring 
down  at  me  as  I  stared  up  at  him.  But  as  his  chin 
felt  the  heat  rising  from  the  chimney  of  the  lamp, 
he  shifted  a  little  to  one  side.  I  might  have  rushed 
for  shelter  into  some  other  room;  I  might  have 
grappled  with  him;  I  might  have  attempted  to 
soothe  him.  But  I  could  neither  stir  nor  speak. 
Least  of  all,  could  I  give  him  the  key  —  for  him  to 
go  and  publish  his  own  disgrace  in  the  thorough- 
fares. So  I  just  gazed  at  him,  inactive. 

"I  s'll  kill  you!"  he  muttered,  and  raised  the 
revolver. 

My  throat  became  suddenly  dry.  I  tried  to 
make  the  motion  of  swallowing,  and  could  not. 


BY  THE  BED  OF  THE  SLEEPER     237 

And  looking  at  the  revolver,  I  perceived  in  a  swift 
revelation  the  vast  folly  of  my  inexperience.  Since 
he  was  already  drunk,  why  had  I  not  allowed  him 
to  drink  more,  to  drink  himself  into  a  stupor? 
Drunkards  can  only  be  cured  when  they  are  sober. 
To  commence  a  course  of  moral  treatment  at  such 
a  moment  as  I  had  chosen  was  indeed  the  act  of  a 
woman.  However,  it  was  too  late  to  reclaim  the 
bottle  from  the  street. 

I  saw  now  that  he  meant  to  kill  me.  And  I  knew 
that  previously,  during  our  encounter  at  the  window, 
I  had  only  pretended  to  myself  that  I  thought  there 
was  a  risk  of  his  killing  me.  I  had  pretended,  in 
order  to  increase  the  glory  of  my  martyrdom  in 
my  own  sight.  Moreover,  my  brain,  which  was 
working  with  singular  clearness,  told  me  that  for 
his  sake  I  ought  to  give  up  the  key.  His  exposure 
as  a  helpless  drunkard  would  be  infinitely  preferable 
to  his  exposure  as  a  murderer. 

Yet  I  could  not  persuade  myself  to  relinquish 
the  key.  If  I  did  so,  he  would  imagine  that  he  had 
frightened  me.  But  I  had  no  fear,  and  I  could  not 
bear  that  he  should  think  I  had. 

He  fired. 

My  ears  sang.  The  room  was  full  of  a  new  odour, 
and  a  cloud  floated  reluctantly  upwards  from  the 
mouth  of  the  revolver.  I  sneezed,  and  then  I  grew 
aware  that,  firing  at  a  distant  of  two  feet,  he  had 


238  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

missed  me.  What  had  happened  to  the  bullet  I 
could  not  guess.  He  put  the  revolver  down  on  the 
table  with  a  groan,  and  the  handle  rested  on  my 
satchel. 

"My  God,  Magda!"  he  sighed,  pushing  back  his 
hair  with  his  beautiful  hand. 

He  was  somewhat  sobered.  I  said  nothing, 
but  I  observed  that  the  lamp  was  smoking,  and  I 
turned  down  the  wick.  I  was  so  self-conscious, 
so  irresolute,  so  nonplussed,  that  in  sheer  awkward- 
ness, like  a  girl  at  a  party  who  does  not  know  what 
to  do  with  her  hands,  I  pushed  the  revolver  off  the 
satchel,  and  idly  unfastened  the  catch  of  the  satchel. 
Within  it,  among  other  things,  was  my  sedative.  I, 
too,  had  fallen  the  victim  of  a  habit.  For  five  years 
a  bad  sleeper,  I  had  latterly  developed  into  a  very 
bad  sleeper,  and  my  sedative  was  accordingly  strong. 

A  notion  struck  me. 

"Drink  a  little  of  this,  my  poor  Diaz!"  I  mur- 
mured. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked. 

"It  will  make  you  sleep,"  I  said. 

With  a  convulsive  movement  he  clutched  the 
bottle  and  uncorked  it,  and  before  I  could  interfere 
he  had  drunk  nearly  the  whole  of  its  contents. 

"Stop!"  I  cried.     "You  will  kill  yourself!" 

"What  matter?"  he  exclaimed;  and  staggered 
off  to  the  darkness  of  the  bedroom. 


BY  THE  BED  OF  THE  SLEEPER     239 

I  followed  him  with  the  lamp,  but  he  had  already 
fallen  on  the  bed,  and  seemed  to  be  heavily  asleep. 
I  shook  him;  he  made  no  response. 

"At  any  cost  he  must  be  roused,"  I  said  aloud. 
"He  must  be  forced  to  walk." 

There  was  a  knocking  at  the  outer  door,  low, 
discreet,  and  continuous.  It  sounded  to  me  like 
a  deliverance.  Whoever  might  be  there  must  aid 
me  to  waken  Diaz.  I  ran  to  the  door,  taking  the 
key  out  of  my  pocket,  and  opened  it.  A  tall  woman 
stood  on  the  doormat.  It  was  the  girl  that  I  had 
glimpsed  on  the  previous  night  in  the  large  hat 
ascending  the  stairs  with  a  man.  But  now  her 
bright  golden  head  was  uncovered,  and  she  wore  a 
blue  peignoir,  such  as  is  sold  ready  made,  with  its 
lace  and  its  ribbons,  at  all  the  big  Paris  shops. 

We  both  hesitated. 

"Oh,  pardon,  madame,"  she  said,  in  a  thin, 
sweet  voice  in  French.  "  I  was  at  my  door,  and 
it  seemed  to  me  that  I  heard  —  a  revolver.  Nothing 
serious  has  passed,  then?  Pardon,  madame." 

"Nothing,  thank  you.  You  are  very  amiable, 
madame,"  I  replied  stiffly. 

"All   my  excuses,   madame,"   said   she,   turning 

away. 

"No,  no!"  I  exclaimed.  "I  am  wrong.  Do  not 
go.  Someone  is  ill  —  very  ill.  If  you  would " 

She  entered. 


240          THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

"Where?     What  is  it?"  she  inquired. 

"He  is  in  the  bedroom  —  here." 

We  both  spoke  breathlessly,  hurrying  to  the 
bedroom,  after  I  had  fetched  the  lamp. 

"Wounded?     He  has  done  himself  harm?     Ah!" 

"No,"  I  said,  "not  that." 

And  I  explained  to  her  that  Diaz  had  taken 
at  least  six  doses  of  my  strong  solution  of  tri- 
onal. 

I  seized  the  lamp  and  held  it  aloft  over  the  form 
of  the  sleeper,  which  lay  on  its  side  crosswise,  the 
feet  projecting  a  little  over  the  edge  of  the  bed,  the 
head  bent  forward  and  missing  the  pillow,  the  arms 
stretched  out  in  front  —  the  very  figure  of  abandoned 
and  perfect  unconsciousness.  And  the  girl  and  I 
stared  at  Diaz,  our  shoulders  touching,  in  the  kennel. 

"He  must  be  made  to  walk  about,"  I  said.  "  You 
would  be  extremely  kind  to  help  me." 

"No,  madame,"  she  replied.  "He  will  be  very 
well  like  that.  When  one  is  alcoholic,  one  cannot 
poison  one's  self;  it  is  impossible.  All  the  doctors 
will  tell  you  as  much.  Your  friend  will  sleep  for 
twenty  hours  —  twenty-four  hours  —  and  he  will 
waken  quite  re-established." 

"You  are  sure?     You  know?" 

"I  know,  madame.  Be  tranquil.  Leave  him. 
He  could  not  have  done  better.  It  is  perfect." 

"Perhaps  I  should  fetch  a  doctor?"  I  suggested. 


BY  THE  BED  OF  THE  SLEEPER     241 

"It  is  not  worth  the  pain,"  she  said,  with  con- 
viction. "You  would  have  vexations  uselessly. 
Leave  him." 

I  gazed  at  her,  studying  her,  and  I  was  satisfied. 
With  her  fluffly  locks,  and  her  simple  eyes,  and  her 
fragile  face,  and  her  long  hands,  she  had,  neverthe- 
less, the  air  of  knowing  profoundly  her  subject. 
She  was  a  great  expert  on  males  and  all  that  apper- 
tained to  them,  especially  their  vices.  I  was  the 
callow  amateur.  I  was  compelled  to  listen  with 
respect  to  this  professor  in  the  professor's  garb. 
I  was  impressed,  in  spite  of  myself. 

"One  might  arrange  him  more  comfortably," 
she  said. 

And  we  lifted  the  senseless  victim,  and  put  him 
on  his  back,  and  straightened  his  limbs,  as  though 
he  had  been  a  corpse. 

"How  handsome  he  is!"  murmured  my  visitor, 
half  closing  her  eyes. 

"You  think  so?"  I  said  politely,  as  if  she  had 
been  praising  one  of  my  private  possessions. 

"Oh,  yes.  We  are  neighbours,  madame.  I 
have  frequently  remarked  him,  you  understand, 
on  the  stairs,  in  the  street." 

"Has  he  been  here  long?"  I  asked. 

"About  a  year,  madame.  You  have,  perhaps, 
not  seen  him  since  a  long  time.  An  old 
friend?" 


242  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

"It  is  ten  years  ago,"  I  replied. 

"Ah!     Ten  years!     In  England,  without  doubt?" 

"In  England,  yes." 

"Ten  years!"  she  repeated,  musing. 

"I  am  certain  she  has  a  kind  heart,"  I  said  to 
myself,  and  I  decided  to  question  her:  "Will  you 
not  sit  down,  madame?"  I  invited  her. 

"Ah,  madame!  it  is  you  who  should  sit  down," 
she  said  quickly.  "You  must  have  suffered!" 

We  both  sat  down.  There  were  only  two  chairs 
in  the  room. 

"  I  would  like  to  ask  you,"  I  said,  leaning  forward 
towards  her,  "have  you  ever  seen  him  —  drunk 

—  before?" 

"No,"  she  replied  instantly;  "never  before  yes- 
terday evening." 

"Be  frank,"  I  urged  her,  smiling  sadly. 

"Why  should  I  not  be  frank,  madame?"  she 
said,  with  a  grave,  gentle  appeal. 

It  was  as  if  she  had  said:  "We  are  talking  woman 
to  woman.  I  know  one  of  your  secrets.  You  can 
guess  mine.  The  male  is  present,  but  he  is  deaf. 
What  reason-,  therefore,  for  deceit?" 

"I  am  much  obliged  to  you,"  I  breathed. 

"Not  at  all,"  she  said.  "Decidedly  he  is  alco- 
holic —  that  sees  itself,"  she  proceeded.  "But  drunk 

—  no!     .     .     .     He  was  always  alone." 
"Always  alone?" 


BY  THE  BED  OF  THE  SLEEPER     243 

"Always." 

Her  eyes  filled.  I  thought  I  had  never  seen 
a  creature  more  gentle,  delicate,  yielding,  acquies- 
cent, and  fair.  She  was  not  beautiful,  but  she  had 
grace  and  distinction  of  movement.  She  was  a 
Parisienne.  She  had  won  my  sympathy.  We  met 
in  a  moment  when  my  heart  needed  the  companion- 
ship of  a  woman's  heart,  and  I  was  drawn  to  her  by 
one  of  those  sudden  impulses  that  sometimes  draw 
women  to  each  other.  I  cared  not  what  she  was. 
Moreover,  she  had  excited  my  curiosity.  She  was 
a  novelty  in  my  life.  She  was  something  that  I  had 
heard  of,  and  seen  —  yes,  and  perhaps  envied  in 
secret,  but  never  spoken  with.  And  she  shattered 
all  my  preconceptions  of  her. 

"You  are  an  old  tenant  of  this  house?"  I  ventured. 

"Yes,"  she  said;  "it  suits  me.  But  the  great 
heats  are  terrible  here." 

"You  do  not  leave  Paris,  then?" 

"Never.     Except  to  see  my  little  boy." 

I  started,  envious  of  her,  and  also  surprised.  It 
seemed  strange  that  this  ribboned  and  elegant  and 
plastic  creature,  whose  long,  thin  arms  were  used 
only  to  dalliance,  should  be  a  mother. 

" So  you  have  a  little  boy?" 

"Yes;  he  lives  with  my  parents  at  Meudon.  He 
is  four  years  old." 

"Excuse  me,"  I  said.    "Be  frank  with  me  once 


244  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

again.  Do-  you  love  your  child,  honestly?  So 
many  women  don't,  it  appears." 

"Do  I  love  him?"  she  cried,  and  her  face  glowed 
with  her  love.  "I  adore  him!"  Her  sincerity 
was  touching  and  overwhelming.  "And  he  loves 
me,  too.  If  he  is  naughty,  one  has  only  to  tell 
him  that  he  will  make  his  petite  mere  ill,  and  he 
will  be  good  at  once.  When  he  is  told  to  obey 
his  grandfather,  because  his  grandfather  provides 
his  food,  he  says  bravely:  'No,  not  grandpa;  it  is 
petite  mere^  Is  it  not  strange  he  should  know  that 
I  pay  for  him?  He  has  a  little  engraving  of  the 
Queen  of  Italy,  and  he  says  it  is  his  petite  mere. 
Among  the  scores  of  pictures  he  gets  he  keeps  only 
that  one.  He  takes  it  to  bed  with  him.  It  is 
impossible  to  deprive  him  of  it." 

She  smiled  divinely. 

"How  beautiful!"  I  said.  "And  you  go  to  see 
him  often?" 

"As  often  as  I  have  time.  I  take  him  out  for 
walks.  I  run  with  him  till  we  reach  the  woods, 
where  I  can  have  him  to  myself  alone.  I  never 
stop;  I  avoid  people.  Nobody  except  my  parents 
knows  that  he  is  my  child.  One  supposes  he  is  a 
nurse-child,  received  by  my  parents.  But  all  the 
world  will  know  now,"  she  added,  after  a  pause. 
"Last  Monday  I  went  to  Meudon  with  my  friend 
Alice,  and  Alice  wanted  to  buy  him  some  sweets 


BY  THE  BED  OF  THE  SLEEPER     245 

at  the  grocer's.  In  the  shop  I  asked  him  if  he 
would  like  dragees,  and  he  said  'Yes.'  The  grocer 
said  to  him,  'Yes,  who,  young  man?'  'Yes,  petite 
mere,'  he  said,  very  loudly  and  bravely.  The 
grocer  understood.  We  all  lowered  our  heads." 

There  was  something  so  affecting  in  the  way  she 
half  whispered  the  last  phrase,  that  I  could  have 
wept;  and  yet  it  was  comical,  too,  and  she  appre- 
ciated that. 

"You  have  no  child,  madame?"  she  asked  me. 

"No,"  I  said.     "How  I  envy  you!" 

"You  need  not,"  she  observed,  with  a  touch  of 
hardness.  "I  have  been  so  unhappy,  that  I  can 
never  be  as  unhappy  again.  Nothing  matters 
now.  All  I  wish  is  to  save  enough  money  to  be 
able  to  live  quietly  in  a  little  cottage  in  the  country." 

"With  your  child,"  I  put  in. 

"My  child  will  grow  up  and  leave  me.  He 
will  become  a  man,  and  he  will  forget  his  petite 
mere." 

"Do  not  talk  like  that,"  I  protested. 

She  glanced  at  me  almost  savagely.  I  was 
astonished  at  the  sudden  change  in  her  face. 

"Why  not?"  she  inquired  coldly.  "Is  it  not 
true,  then?  Do  you  still  believe  that  there  is  any 
difference  between  one  man  and  another?  They 
are  all  alike  — all,  all,  all!  I  know.  And  it  is  we 
who  suffer,  we  mothers." 


246  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

"But  surely  you  have  some  tender  souvenir  of 
your  child's  father?"  I  said. 

"Do  I  know  who  my  child's  father  is?"  she 
demanded.  "My  child  has  thirty-six  fathers!" 

"You  seem  very  bitter,"  I  said,  "for  your  age. 
You  are  much  younger  than  I  am." 

She  smiled  and  shook  her  honey-coloured  hair, 
and  toyed  with  the  ribbons  of  her  peignoir. 

"What  I  say  is  true,"  she  said  gently.  "But, 
there,  what  would  you?  We  hate  them,  but  we 
love  them.  They  are  beasts !  beasts!  but  we  cannot 
do  without  them!" 

Her  eyes  rested  on  Diaz  for  a  moment.  He 
slept  without  the  least  sound,  the  stricken  and 
futile  witness  of  our  confidences. 

"You  will  take  him  away  from  Paris  soon,  per- 
haps?" she  asked. 

"If  I  can,"  I  said. 

There  was  a  sound  of  light  footsteps  on  the  stair. 
They  stopped  at  the  door,  which  I  remembered  we 
had  not  shut.  I  jumped  up  and  went  into  the 
passage.  Another  girl  stood  in  the  doorway,  in  a 
peignoir  the  exact  counterpart  of  my  first  visitor's, 
but  rose  coloured.  And  this  one,  too,  was  langour- 
ous  and  had  honey-coloured  locks.  It  was  as  though 
the  mysterious  house  was  full  of  such  creatures, 
each  with  her  secret  lair. 

"Pardon,   madame,"   said   my  visitor,   following 


BY  THE  BED  OF  THE  SLEEPER     247 

and  passing  me;  and  then  to  the  newcomer:  "What 

is  it,  Alice?" 

"It  is  Monsieur  Duchatel  who  is  arrived." 
"Oh!"  with  a  disdainful  gesture,  "  Je  m'en  fiche. 

Let  him  go." 

"But  it  is  the  nephew,  my  dear;  not  the  uncle." 
"Ah,  the  nephew!     I  come.     Bon  soir,  madame, 

et  bonne  nuit" 

The    two    peignoirs    fluttered    down    the    stairs 

together.     I  returned  to  my  Diaz,  and  seeing  his 

dressing-gown  behind  the  door  of  the  bedroom,  I 

took  it  and  covered  him  with  it. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  OFFER 

HIS  first  words  were: 
"Magda,  you  look  like  a  ghost.     Have 
you    been    sitting    there    like   that    all 
the    time  ?" 

"No,"  I  said;  "I  lay  down." 

"Where?" 

"By  your  side." 

"What  time  is  it?" 

"Tea-time.     The  water  is  boiling." 

"Was  I  dreadful  last  night?" 

"Dreadful?     How?" 

"I  have  a  sort  of  recollection  of  getting  angry 
and  stamping  about.  I  didn't  do  anything 
foolish?" 

"You  took  a  great  deal  too  much  of  my  sedative," 
I  answered. 

"I  feel  quite  well,"  he  said;  "but  I  didn't  know 
I  had  taken  any  sedative  at  all.  I'm  glad  I  didn't 
do  anything  silly  last  night." 

I  ran  away  to  prepare  the  tea.  The  situation 
was  too  much  for  me. 

248 


THE  OFFER  249 

"My  poor  Diaz!"  I  said,  when  we  had  begun 
to  drink  the  tea,  and  he  was  sitting  on  the  edge 
of  the  bed,  his  eyes  full  of  sleep,  his  chin  rough, 
and  his  hair  magnificently  disarranged,  "you  did 
one  thing  that  was  silly  last  night." 

"Don't  tell  me  I  struck  you?"  he  cried. 

"Oh  no!"  and  I  laughed.  "Can't  you  guess 
what  I  mean?" 

"You  mean  I  got  vilely  drunk." 

I  nodded. 

"Magda,"  he  burst  out  passionately,  seeming  at 
this  point  fully  to  arouse  himself,  to  resume  acutely 
his  consciousness,  "why  were  you  late?  You  said 
four  o'clock.  I  thought  you  had  deceived  me. 
I  thought  I  had  disgusted  you,  and  that  you  didn't 
mean  to  return.  I  waited  more  than  an  hour  and  a 
quarter,  and  then  I  went  out  in  despair." 

"But  I  came  just  afterwards,"  I  protested. 
"You  had  only  to  wait  a  few  more  minutes.  Surely 
you  could  have  waited  a  few  more  minutes?" 

"You  said  four  o'clock,"  he  repeated,  obstinately. 

"It  was  barely  half-past  five  when  I  came,"  I  said. 

"I  had  meant  never  to  drink  again,"  he  went  on. 
"You  were  so  kind  to  me.  But  then,  when  you 
didn't  come  — 

"You  doubted  me,  Diaz.  You  ought  to  have 
been  sure  of  me." 

"I  was  wrong." 


250  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

"No,  no!"  I  said.  "It  was  I  who  was  wrong. 
But  I  never  thought  that  an  hour  and  a  half  would 
make  any  difference." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"Ah,  Magda,  Magda!"  —  he  suddenly  began  to 
weep;  it  was  astounding  —  "remember  that  you 
had  deserted  me  once  before.  Remember  that. 
If  you  had  not  done  that,  my  life  might  have  been 
different.  It  would  have  been  different." 

"Don't  say  so,"  I  pleaded. 

"Yes,  I  must  say  so.  You  cannot  imagine  how 
solitary  my  life  has  been.  Magda,  I  loved  you." 

And  I,  too,  wept. 

His  accent  was  sincerity  itself.  I  saw  the  young 
girl  hurrying  secretly  out  of  the  Five  Towns  Hotel. 
Could  it  be  true  that  she  had  carried  away  with  her, 
unknowing,  the  heart  of  Diaz?  Could  it  be  true 
that  her  panic  flight  had  ruined  a  career?  The 
faint  possibility  that  it  was  true  made  me  sick  with 
vain  grief. 

"And  now  I  am  old  and  forgotten  and  disgraced," 
he  said. 

"How  old  are  you,  Diaz?" 

"Thirty-six,"  he  answered. 

"Why,"  I  said,  "you  have  thirty  years  to 
live." 

"Yes;  and  what  years?" 

"Famous  years.     Brilliant  years." 


THE  OFFER  251 

He  shook  his  head. 

"I  am  done  for—  '  he  murmured,  and  his 
head  sank. 

"Are  you  so  weak  then?"  I  took  his  hand. 
"Are  you  so  weak?  Look  at  me." 

He  obeyed,  and  his  wet  eyes  met  mine.  In 
that  precious  moment  I  lived. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said. 

"You  could  not  have  looked  at  me  if  you  had 
not  been  strong,  very  strong,"  I  said  firmly.  "You 
told  me  once  that  you  had  a  house  near  Fontaine- 
bleau.  Have  you  still  got  it?" 

"I  suppose  so." 

"Let  us  go  there,  and  —  and  —  see." 

"But- 

"I  should  like  to  go,"  I  insisted,  with  a  break  in 
my  voice. 

"My  God!"  he  exclaimed  in  a  whisper,  "my 
God!" 

I  was  sobbing  violently,  and  my  forehead  was 
against  the  rough  stuff  of  his  coat. 


CHAPTER  V 

IN  THE  FOREST 

AJD  one  morning,  long  afterwards,  I  awoke 
very  early,  and  murmuring  of  the  leaves  of 
the  forest  came  through  the  open  window. 
I  had  known  that  I  should  wake  very  early,  in  joyous 
anticipation,  of  that  day.  And  as  I  lay  he  lay 
beside  me,  lost  in  the  dreamless,  boyish,  natural 
sleep  that  he  never  sought  in  vain.  He  lay,  as 
always,  slightly  on  his  right  side,  with  his  face  a 
little  towards  me  —  his  face  that  was  young  again, 
and  from  which  the  bane  had  passed.  It  was 
one  of  the  handsomest,  fairest  faces  in  the  world, 
one  of  the  most  innocent,  and  one  of  the  strongest; 
the  face  of  a  man  who  follows  his  instincts  with  the 
direct  simplicity  of  a  savage  or  a  child,  and  whose 
instincts  are  sane  and  powerful.  Seen  close,  seen 
perfectly  at  rest,  as  I  saw  it  morning  after  morning, 
it  was  full  of  a  special  and  mysterious  attraction. 
The  fine  curves  of  the  nostrils  and  of  the  lobe  of 
the  ear,  the  masterful  lines  of  the  mouth,  the  con- 
tours of  the  cheek  and  chin  and  temples,  the  tints 
of  the  flesh  subtly  varying  from  rose  to  ivory,  the 


IN  THE  FOREST  253 

golden  crown  of  hair,  the  soft  moustache:  I  had 
learned  every  detail  by  heart;  my  eyes  had  dwelt  on 
them  till  they  had  become  my  soul's  inheritance, 
till  they  were  mystically  mine,  drawing  me  ever 
towards  them,  as  a  treasure  draws.  Gently  moving, 
I  would  put  my  ear  close,  close,  and  listen  to  the 
breath  of  life  as  it  entered  regularly,  almost  imper- 
ceptibly, vivifying  that  organism  in  repose.  There 
is  something  terrible  in  the  still  beauty  of  sleep. 
It  is  as  though  the  spiritual  fabric  hangs  inexplicably 
over  the  precipice  of  death.  It  seems  impossible, 
or  at  least  miraculous  that  the  intake  and  the  ex- 
pulsion upon  which  existence  depends  should  con- 
tinue thus,  minute  by  minute,  hour  by  hour.  It 
is  as  though  one  stood  on  the  very  confines  of  life, 
and  could  one  trace  but  one  step  more,  one  single 
step,  one  would  unveil  the  eternal  secret.  I  would 
not  listen  long;  the  torture  was  too  sweet,  too  ex- 
quisite, and  I  would  gently  slide  back  to  my  place 
.  .  .  His  hand  was  on  the  counterpane,  near  to 
my  breast  —  the  broad  hand  of  the  pianist,  with  a 
wrist  of  incredible  force,  and  the  fingers  tapering 
suddenly  at  the  end  to  a  point.  I  let  my  own 
descend  on  it  as  softly  as  snow.  Ah,  ravishing 
contact!  He  did  not  move.  And  while  my  small 
hand  touched  his  I  gazed  into  the  spaces  of  the  bed- 
room, with  its  walls  of  faded  blue  tapestry  and  its 
white  curtains,  and  its  marble  and  rosewood,  and 


254  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

they  seemed  to  hold  peace,  as  the  hollows  of  a  field 
hold  dew;  they  seemed  to  hold  happiness  as  a  great 
tree  holds  sunlight  in  its  branches;  and  outside  was 
the  murmuring  of  the  leaves  of  the  forest  in  the 
virginal  freshness  of  the  morning. 

Surely  he  must  wake  earlier  that  day!  I  pursed 
my  lips  and  blew  tenderly,  mischievously,  on  his 
cheek,  lying  with  my  cheek  full  on  the  pillow,  so 
that  I  could  watch  him.  The  muscles  of  his  mouth 
twitched,  his  inner  being  appeared  to  protest. 
And  then  began  the  first  instinctive  blind  move- 
ment of  the  day  with  him.  His  arms  came  forward 
and  found  my  neck,  and  drew  me  forcibly  to  him, 
and  then,  just  before  our  lips  touched,  he  opened  his 
eyes  and  shut  them  again.  So  it  occurred  every 
morning.  Ere  even  his  brain  had  resumed  activity 
his  heart  had  felt  its  need  of  me.  This  it  was  that 
was  so  wonderful,  so  overpowering!  And  the  kiss, 
languid  and  yet  warm,  heavy  with  a  human  scent, 
with  the  scent  of  the  night,  honest,  sensuous,  and 
long  —  long!  As  I  lay  thus,  clasped  in  his  arms,  I 
half  closed  my  eyes,  and  looked  into  his  eyes  through 
my  lashes,  smiling,  and  all  was  a  delicious  blur.  .  .  . 

It  was  the  summit  of  bliss!  No!  I  have  never 
mounted  higher!  I  asked  myself,  astounded, 
what  I  had  done  that  I  should  receive  such  happi- 
ness, what  I  had  done  that  existence  should  have 
no  flaw  for  me.  And  what  had  I  done?  I  know 


IN  THE  FOREST  255 

not,  I  know  not.  It  passes  me.  I  am  lost  in  my 
joy.  For  I  had  done  naught  to  cure  him.  I  had 
anticipated  painful  scenes,  interminable  struggles, 
perhaps  a  relapse.  But  nothing  of  the  kind.  He 
had  simply  ceased  at  once  the  habit  —  that  was  all. 
We  never  left  each  other.  And  his  magnificent 
constitution  had  perfectly  recovered  itself  in  a  few 
months.  I  had  done  naught. 

"Magda,"  he  murmured  indistinctly,  drawing 
his  mouth  an  inch  away  from  mine,  "why  can't 
your  dark  hair  always  be  loose  over  your  shoulders 
like  that?  It  is  glorious!" 

"What  ideas  you  have!"  I  murmured,  more  softly 
than  he.  "And  do  you  know  what  it  is  to-day?" 

"No." 

"You've  forgotten?"  I  pouted. 

"Yes." 

"Guess." 

"No;  you  must  tell  me.  Not  your  birthday? 
Not  mine?" 

"It's  just  a  year  since  I  met  you,"  I  whispered 
timidly. 

Our  mouths  met  again,  and,  so  enlocked,  we 
rested,  savouring  the  true  savour  of  life.  And 
presently  my  hand  stole  up  to  his  head  and  stroked 
his  curls. 

Every  morning  he  began  to  practise  at  eight 
o'clock  and  continued  till  eleven.  The  piano,  a 


256  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

Steinway  in  a  hundred  Steinways,  was  in  the  further 
of  the  two  drawing-rooms.  He  would  go  into  the 
room  smoking  a  cigarette,  and  when  he  had  thrown 
away  the  cigarette  I  would  leave  him.  And  as 
soon  as  I  had  closed  the  door  the  first  notes  would 
resouncl,  slow  and  solemn,  of  the  five-finger  exercises 
with  which  invariably  commenced  his  studies. 
That  morning,  as  often,  I  sat  writing  in  the  enclosed 
garden.  I  always  wrote  in  pencil  on  my  knee. 
The  windows  of  the  drawing-room  were  wide  open, 
and  Diaz'  music  filled  the  garden.  The  sheer 
beauty  of  his  tone  was  such  that  to  hear  him  strike 
even  an  isolated  note  gave  pleasure.  He  created 
beauty  all  the  time.  His  five-finger  exercises  were 
lovely  patterns  of  sound  woven  with  exact  and  awful 
deliberation.  It  seemed  impossible  that  these 
should  be  the  same  bald  and  meaningless  inventions 
which  I  had  been  wont  to  repeat.  They  were 
transformed.  They  were  music.  The  material 
in  which  he  built  them  was  music  itself,  enchanting 
the  ear  as  much  by  the  quality  of  the  tone  as  by  the 
impeccable  elegance  of  the  form.  To  hear  Diaz 
play  a  scale,  to  catch  that  measured,  tranquil  suc- 
cession of  notes,  each  a  different  jewel  of  equal 
splendour,  each  dying  precisely  when  the  next  was 
born  —  this  was  to  perceive  at  last  what  music 
is  made  of,  to  have  glimpses  of  the  divine  magic 
that  is  the  soul  of  the  divinest  art.  I  used  to  believe 


IN  THE  FOREST  257 

that  nothing  could  surpass  the  beauty  of  a  scale, 
until  Diaz,  after  writing  formal  patterns  in  the  still 
air  innumerably,  and  hypnotizing  me  with  that 
sorcery,  would  pass  suddenly  to  the  repetition  of 
fragments  of  Bach.  And  then  I  knew  that  hitherto 
he  had  only  been  trying  to  be  more  purely  and 
severely  mechanical  than  a  machine,  and  that  now 
the  interpreter  was  at  work.  I  have  heard  him 
repeat  a  passage  fifty  times  —  and  so  slowly!  — 
and  each  rendering  seemed  more  beautiful  than  the 
last;  and  it  was  more  beautiful  than  the  last. 
He  would  extract  the  final  drop  of  beauty  from  the 
most  beautiful  things  in  the  world.  Washed, 
drenched  in  this  circumambient  ether  of  beauty, 
I  wrote  my  verse.  Perhaps  it  may  appear  almost  a 
sacrilege  that  I  should  have  used  the  practising  of 
a  Diaz  as  a  background  for  my  own  creative  activity. 
I  often  thought  so.  But  when  one  has  but  gold, 
one  must  put  it  to  lowly  use.  So  I  wrote,  and  he 
passed  from  Bach  to  Chopin. 

Usually  he  would  come  out  into  the  garden  for 
five  minutes  at  half-past  nine  to  smoke  a  cigarette, 
but  that  morning  it  had  struck  ten  before  the 
music  ceased.  I  saw  him.  He  walked  absent- 
minded  along  the  terrace  in  the  strange  silence  that 
had  succeeded.  He  was  wearing  his  riding-breeches, 
for  we  habitually  rode  at  eleven.  And  that  morning 
I  did  not  hide  my  work  when  he  came.  It  was, 


258  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

in  fact,  finished;  the  time  had  arrived  to  disclose  it. 
He  stopped  in  front  of  me  in  the  sunlight,  utterly 
preoccupied  with  himself  and  his  labours.  He  had 
the  rapt  look  on  his  face  which  results  from  the 
terrible  mental  and  spiritual  strain  of  practising 
as  he  practised. 

"Satisfied?"  I  asked  him. 

He  frowned. 

"There  are  times  when  one  gets  rather  inspired," 
he  said,  looking  at  me,  as  it  were,  without  seeing 
me.  "  It's  as  if  the  whole  soul  gets  into  one's  hands. 
That's  what's  wanted." 

"You  had  it  this  morning?" 

"  A  bit." 

He  smiled  with  candid  joy. 

"While  I  was  listening "  I  began. 

"Oh!"  he  broke  in  impulsively,  violently,  "it 
isn't  you  that  have  to  listen.  It's  I  that  have  to 
listen.  It's  the  player  that  has  to  listen.  He's 
got  to  do  more  than  listen.  He's  got  to  be  in  the 
piano  with  his  inmost  heart.  If  he  isn't  on  the  full 
stretch  of  analysis  the  whole  blessed  time,  he  might 
just  as  well  be  turning  the  handle  of  a  barrel-organ." 

He  always  talked  about  his  work  during  the 
little  "recess"  which  he  took  in  the  middle  of  the 
morning.  He  pretended  to  be  talking  to  me,  but 
it  was  to  himself  that  he  talked.  He  was  impatient 
if  I  spoke. 


IN  THE  FOREST  259 

"I  shall  be  greater  than  ever,"  he  proceeded, 
after  a  moment.  And  this  attitude  towards  him- 
self was  so  disengaged,  so  apart  and  aloof,  so  crit- 
ically appreciative,  that  it  was  impossible  to  accuse 
him  of  egoism.  He  was,  perhaps,  as  amazed  at 
his  own  transcendent  gift  as  any  other  person  could 
be,  and  he  was  incapable  of  hiding  his  sensations. 
"Yes,"  he  repeated;  "I  think  I  shall  be  greater 
than  ever.  You  see,  a  Chopin  player  is  born; 
you  can't  make  him.  With  Chopin  it's  not  a  ques- 
tion of  intellect.  It's  all  tone  with  Chopin  —  tone, 
my  child,  even  in  the  most  bravura  passages. 
You've  got  to  get  it." 

"Yes,"  I  agreed. 

He  gazed  over  the  tree-tops  into  the  blue  sky. 

"I  may  be  ready  in  six  months,"  he  said. 

"I  think  you  will,"  I  concurred,  with  a  judicial 
air.  But  I  honestly  deemed  him  to  be  more  than 
ready  then. 

Twelve  months  previously  he  had  said:  "With 
six  hours'  practise  a  day  for  two  years  I  shall 
recover  what  I  have  lost." 

He  had  succeeded  beyond  his  hopes. 

"Are  you  writing  in  that  book?"  he  inquired  care- 
lessly as  he  threw  down  thecigarette  and  turned  away. 

"I  have  just  finished  something,"  I  replied. 

"Oh!"  he  said,  "I'm  glad  you  aren't  idle.  It's 
so  boring." 


260  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

He  returned  to  the  piano,  perfectly  incurious 
about  what  I  did,  self-absorbed  as  a  god.  And 
I  was  alone  in  the  garden,  with  the  semicircle 
of  trees  behind  me,  and  the  facade  of  the  old  house 
and  its  terrace  in  front.  And  lying  on  the  lawn, 
just  under  the  terrace,  was  the  white  end  of  the 
cigarette  which  he  had  abandoned;  it  breathed 
upwards  a  thin  spiral  of  blue  smoke  through  the 
morning  sunshine,  and  then  it  ceased  to  breathe. 
And  the  music  recommenced,  on  a  different  plane, 
more  brilliantly  than  before.  It  was  as  though, 
till  then,  Diaz  had  been  laboriously  building  the 
bases  of  a  tremendous  triumphal  arch,  and  that 
now  the  two  wings  met,  dazzlingly,  soaringly,  in 
highest  heaven,  and  the  completed  arch  became 
a  rainbow  glittering  in  the  face  of  the  infinite.  He 
played  two  of  his  great  concert  pieces,  and  their 
intricate  melodies  —  brocaded,  embroidered,  fes- 
tooned —  poured  themselves  through  the  windows 
into  the  garden  in  a  procession  majestic  and  im- 
passioned, perturbing  the  intent  soul  of  the  solitary 
listener,  swathing  her  in  intoxicating  sound.  It 
was  the  unique  virtuoso  born  again,  proudly 
displaying  the  ultimate  sublime  end  of  all  those 
slow-moving  exercises  to  which  he  had  subdued  his 
fingers.  Not  for  ten  years  had  I  heard  him  play  so. 

When  we  first  came  into  the  house  I  had  said 
bravely  to  myself:  "His  presence  shall  not  deter 


IN  THE  FOREST  261 

me  from  practising  as  I  have  always  done."  And 
one  afternoon  I  had  sat  down  to  the  piano  full 
of  determination  to  practise  without  fear  of  him, 
without  self-consciousness.  But  before  my  hands 
had  touched  the  keys  shame  took  me,  unreasoning, 
terror-struck  shame,  and  I  knew  in  an  instant  that 
while  he  lived  I  should  never  more  play  the  piano. 
He  laughed  lightly  when  I  told  him,  and  I  called 
myself  silly.  Yet  now,  as  I  sat  in  the  garden,  I 
saw  how  right  I  had  been.  And  I  wondered  that  I 
should  ever  have  had  the  audacity  even  to  dream  of 
playing  in  his  house;  the  idea  was  grotesque.  And 
he  did  not  ask  me  to  play,  save  when  there  arrived 
new  orchestral  music  arranged  for  four  hands. 
Then  I  steeled  myself  to  the  ordeal  of  playing  with 
him,  because  he  wished  to  try  over  the  music. 
And  he  would  thank  me,  and  say  that  pianoforte 
duets  were  always  very  enjoyable.  But  he  did  not 
pretend  that  I  was  not  an  amateur,  and  he  never 
—  thank  God!  —  suggested  that  we  should  attempt 
Tristan  again. 

At  last  he  finished.  And  I  heard  distantly  the 
bell  which  he  had  rung  for  his  glass  of  milk.  And, 
remembering  that  I  was  not  ready  for  the  ride,  I 
ran  with  guilty  haste  into  the  house  and  upstairs. 

The  two  bay  horses  were  waiting,  our  English 
groom  at  their  heads,  when  I  came  out  to  the  porch. 
Diaz  was  impatiently  tapping  his  boot  with  his 


262  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

whip.  He  was  not  in  the  least  a  sporting  man,  but 
he  loved  the  sensation  of  riding,  and  the  groom 
would  admit  that  he  rode  passably;  but  he  loved 
more  to  strut  in  breeches,  and  to  imitate  in  little 
ways  the  sporting  man.  I  had  learnt  to  ride  in 
order  to  please  him. 

"Come  along,"  he  exclaimed. 

His  eyes  said:  "You  are  always  late."  And 
I  was.  Some  people  always  know  exactly  what 
point  they  have  reached  in  the  maze  and  jungle 
of  the  day,  just  as  mariners  are  always  aware,  at 
the  back  of  their  minds,  of  the  state  of  the  tide. 
But  I  was  not  born  so. 

Diaz  helped  me  to  mount,  and  we  departed, 
jingling  through  the  gate  and  across  the  road  into 
a  glade  of  the  forest,  one  of  those  long  sandy  defiles, 
banked  on  either  side,  and  over-shadowed  with  tall 
oaks,  which  pierce  the  immense  forest  like  rapiers. 
The  sunshine  slanted  through  the  crimsoning  leaf- 
work  and  made  irregular  golden  patches  on  the  dark 
sand  to  the  furthest  limit  of  the  perspective.  And 
though  we  could  not  feel  the  autumn  wind,  we  could 
hear  it  in  the  tree-tops,  and  it  had  the  sound  of  the 
sea.  The  sense  of  well-being  and  of  joy  was  ex- 
quisite. The  beauty  of  horses,  timid  creatures, 
sensitive  and  graceful  and  irrational  as  young  girls, 
is  a  thing  apart;  and  what  is  strange  is  that  their 
vast  strength  does^  not  seem  incongruous  with  it. 


IN  THE  FOREST  263 

To  be  above  that  proud  and  lovely  organism, 
listening,  apprehensive,  palpitating,  nervous  far 
beyond  the  human,  to  feel  one's  self  almost  part 
of  it  by  intimate  contact,  to  yield  to  it,  and  make 
it  yield,  to  draw  from  it  into  one's  self  some  of 
its-  exultant  vitality  —  in  a  word,  to  ride  —  yes, 
I  could  comprehend  Diaz'  fine  enthusiasm  for  that! 
I  could  share  it  when  he  was  content  to  let  the 
horses  amble  with  noiseless  hoofs  over  the  soft 
ways.  But  when  he  would  gallop,  and  a  strong 
wind  sprang  up  to  meet  our  faces,  and  the  earth 
shook  and  thundered,  and  the  trunks  of  the  trees 
raced  past  us,  then  I  was  afraid.  My  fancy  always 
saw  him  senseless  at  the  foot  of  a  tree  while  his 
horse  calmly  cropped  the  short  grass  at  the  sides 
of  the  path;  or  with  his  precious  hand  twisted  and 
maimed!  And  I  was  in  agony  till  he  reined  in. 
I  never  dared  to  speak  to  him  of  this  fear,  nor  even 
hint  to  him  that  the  joy  was  worth  less  than  the 
peril.  He  would  have  been  angry  in  his  heart,  and 
something  in  him  stronger  than  himself  would  have 
forced  him  to  increase  the  risks.  I  knew  him!  .  .  . 
Ah!  but  when  we  went  gently,  life  seemed  to  be 
ideal  for  me,  impossibly  perfect!  It  seemed  to 
contain  all  that  I  could  ever  have  demanded 
of  it. 

I  looked  at  him  sideways,  so  noble  and  sane  and 
self-controlled.     And  the  days  in  Paris  had  receded, 


264  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

far  and  dim  and  phantom-like.  Was  it  conceiv- 
able that  they  had  once  been  real,  and  that  we  had 
lived  through  them  ?  And  was  this  Diaz,  the  world- 
renowned  darling  of  capitals,  riding  by  me,  a  woman 
whom  he  had  met  by  fantastic  chance?  Had  he 
really  hidden  himself  in  my  arms  from  the  cruel 
stare  of  the  world  and  the  insufferable  curiosity 
of  admirers  who,  instead  of  admiring,  had  begun 
to  pity?  Had  I  in  truth  saved  him?  Was  it  I 
who  would  restore  him  to  his  glory?  Oh,  the  as- 
tounding romance  that  my  life  had  been!  And  he 
was  with  me!  He  shared  my  life,  and  I  his!  I 
wondered  what  would  happen  when  he  returned  to 
his  bright  kingdom.  I  was  selfish  enough  to  wish 
that  he  might  never  return  to  his  kingdom,  and  that 
we  might  ride  and  ride  for  ever  in  the  forest. 

And  then  we  came  to  a  circular  clearing,  with 
an  iron  cross  in  the  middle,  where  roads  met,  a 
place  such  as  occurs  magically  in  some  ballad  of 
Chopin's.  And  here  we  drew  rein  on  the  leaf- 
strewn  grass,  breathing  quickly,  with  reddened 
cheeks,  and  the  horses  nosed  each  other,  with 
long  stretchings  of  the  neck  and  rattling  of  bits. 

"So  you've  been  writing  again?"  said  Diaz, 
smiling  quizzically. 

"Yes,"  I  answered.  "I've  been  writing  a  long 
time,  but  I  haven't  let  you  know  anything  about 
it;  and  just  to-day  I've  finished  it." 


IN  THE  FOREST  265 

"What  is  it  —  another  novel?" 

"No;  a  little  drama  in  verse." 

"Going  to  publish  it?" 

"Why,  naturally." 

Diaz  was  aware  that  I  enjoyed  fame  in  England 
and  America.  He  was  probably  aware  that  my 
books  had  brought  me  a  considerable  amount  of 
money.  He  had  read  some  of  my  works,  and  found 
them  excellent  —  indeed,  he  was  quite  proud  of 
my  talent.  But  he  did  not,  he  could  not,  take 
altogether  seriously  either  my  talent  or  my  fame. 
I  knew  that  he  always  regarded  me  as  a  child  grace- 
fully playing  at  a  career.  For  him  there  was  only 
one  sort  of  fame;  all  the  other  sorts  were  shadows. 
A  supreme  violinist  might,  perhaps,  approach 
the  real  thing,  in  his  generous  mind;  but  he  was 
incapable  of  honestly  believing  that  any  fame  com- 
pared with  that  of  a  pianist.  The  other  fames 
were  very  well,  but  they  were  paste  to  the  precious 
stone,  gewgaws  to  amuse  simple  persons.  The 
sums  paid  to  sopranos  struck  him  as  merely  ridic- 
ulous in  their  enormity.  He  could  not  be  called 
conceited;  nevertheless,  he  was  magnificently  sure 
that  he  had  been,  and  still  was,  the  most  celebrated 
person  in  the  civilized  world.  Certainly  he  had  no 
superiors  in  fame,  but  he  would  not  admit  the  pos- 
sibility of  equals.  Of  course,  he  never  argued  such 
a  point;  it  was  a  tacit  assumption,  secure  from 


266  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

argument.  And  with  that  he  profoundly  reverenced 
the  great  composers.  The  death  of  Brahms  affected 
him  for  years.  He  regarded  it  as  an  occasion  for 
universal  sorrow.  Had  Brahms  condescended  to 
play  the  piano,  Diaz  would  have  turned  the  pages 
for  him,  and  deemed  himself  honoured  —  him 
whom  queens  had  flattered! 

"Did  you  imagine,"  I  began  to  tease  him,  after 
a  pause,  "that  while  you  are  working  I  spend  my 
time  in  merely  existing?" 

"You  exist  —  that  is  enough,  my  darling,"  he 
said.  "Strange  that  a  beautiful  woman  can't 
understand  that  in  existing  she  is  doing  her  life's 
work!" 

And  he  leaned  over  and  touched  my  right  wrist 
below  the  glove. 

"You  dear  thing!"  I  murmured,  smiling.  "How 
foolish  you  can  be!" 

"What's  the  drama  about?"  he  asked. 

"About  La  Valliere,"  I  said. 

"La  Valliere!  But  that's  the  kind  of  subject  I 
want  for  my  opera!" 

"Yes,"  I  said;  "I  have  thought  so." 

"Could  you  turn  it  into  a  libretto,  my  child?" 

"No,  dearest." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  it  already  is  a  libretto.  I  have  written 
it  as  such." 


IN  THE  FOREST  267 

;;  "For  me?" 

"For  whom  else?" 

;And  I  looked  at  him  fondly,  and  I  think  tears 
came  to  my  eyes. 

"  You  are  a  genius,  Magda !"  he  exclaimed.  "  You 
leave  nothing  undone  for  me.  The  subject  is  the 
very  thing  to  suit  Villedo." 

"Who  is  Villedo?" 

"My  jewel,  you  don't  know  who  Villedo  is! 
Villedo  is  the  director  of  the  Opera  Comique  in 
Paris,  the  most  artistic  opera-house  in  Europe. 
He  used  to  beg  me  every  time  we  met  to  write  him 
an  opera." 

"And  why  didn't  you?" 

"Because  I  had  neither  the  subject  nor  the 
time.  One  doesn't  write  operas  after  lunch  in 
hotel  parlours;  and  as  for  a  good  libretto  —  well; 
outside  Wagner,  there's  only  one  opera  in  the  world 
with  a  good  libretto,  and  that's  Carmen" 

Diaz,  who  had  had  a  youthful  operatic  work 
performed  at  the  Royal  School  of  Music  in  London, 
and  whose  numerous  light  compositions  for  the 
pianoforte  had,  of  course,  enjoyed  a  tremendous 
vogue,  was  much  more  serious  about  his  projected 
opera  than  I  had  imagined.  He  had  frequently 
mentioned  it  to  me,  but  I  had  not  thought  the  idea 
was  so  close  to  his  heart  as  I  now  perceived  it  to  be. 
I  had  written  (.he  libretto  to  amuse  myself,  and 


268  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

perhaps  him,  and  lo!  he  was  going  to  excite  himself; 
I  well  knew  the  symptoms. 

"  You  wrote  it  in  that  little  book,"  he  said.  "  You 
haven't  got  it  in  your  pocket?" 

"No,"  I  answered.     "I  haven't  even  a  pocket." 

He  would  not  laugh. 

"Come,"  he  said  —  "come,  let's  see  it." 

He  gathered  up  his  loose  rein  and  galloped  off. 
He  could  not  wait  an  instant. 

"Come  along!"  he  cried  imperiously,  turning  his 
head. 

"I  am  coming,"  I  replied;  "but  wait  for  me. 
Don't  leave  me  like  that,  Diaz." 

The  old  fear  seized  me,  but  nothing  could  stop 
him,  and  I  followed  as  fast  as  I  dared. 
1  "Where  is  it?"  he  asked,  when  we  reached  home. 

"Upstairs,"  I  said. 

And  he  came  upstairs  behind  me,  pulling  my 
habit  playfully,  in  an  effort  to  persuade  us  both 
that  his  impatience  was  a  simulated  one.  I  had 
to  find  my  keys  and  unlock  a  drawer.  I  took  the 
small,  silk-bound  volume  from  the  back  part  of 
the  drawer  and  gave  it  to  him. 

"There!"  I  exclaimed.  "But  remember  lunch  is 
ready." 

He  regarded  the  book. 

"What  a  pretty  binding!"  he  said.  "Who 
worked  it?" 


IN  THE  FOREST  269 

"I  did." 

"And,  of  course,  your  handwriting  is  so  pretty, 
too!"  he  added,  glancing  at  the  leaves.  "'La 
Valliere,  an  opera  in  three  acts.'" 

We  exchanged  a  look,  each  of  us  deliciously 
perturbed,  and  then  he  ran  off  with  the  book. 

He  had  to  be  called  three  times  from  the  garden 
to  lunch,  and  he  brought  the  book  with  him,  and 
read  it  in  snatches  during  the  meal,  and  while  sipping 
his  coffee.  I  watched  him  furtively  as  he  turned 
over  the  pages. 

"Oh,  you've  done  it!"  he  said  at  length  —  "you've 
done  it!  You  evidently  have  a  gift  for  libretto. 
It  is  neither  more  or  less  than  perfect!  And  the 
subject  is  wonderful!" 

He  rose,  walked  round  the  table,  and,  taking 
my  head  between  his  hands,  kissed  me. 

"Magda,"  he  said,  "you're  the  cleverest  girl  that 
was  ever  born." 

"Then  do  you  think  you  will  compose  it?"  I 
asked,  joyous. 

"Do  I  think  I  will  compose  it!  Why,  what 
do  you  imagine?  I've  already  begun.  It  com- 
poses itself.  I'm  now  going  to-  read  it  all  again  in 
the  garden.  Just  see  that  I'm  not  worried,  will  you  ?" 

"You  mean  you  don't  want  me  there.  You 
don't  care  for  me  any  more." 

It  amused  me  to  pretend  to  pout. 


270  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

"Yes,"  he  laughed;  "that's  it.  I  don't  care  for" 
you  any  more. " 

He  departed. 

"Have  no  fear!"  I  cried  after  him.  "I  shan't 
come  into  your  horrid  garden!" 

His  habit  was  to  resume  his  practise  at  three 
o'clock.  The  hour  was  then  half-past  one.  I 
wondered  whether  he  would  allow  himself  to  be 
seduced  from  the  piano  that  afternoon  by  the  desire 
to  compose.  I  hoped  not,  for  there  could  be  no 
question  as  to  the  relative  importance  to  him  of  the 
two  activities.  To  my  surprise,  I  heard  the  piano 
at  two  o'clock,  instead  of  at  three,  and  it  continued 
without  intermission  till  five.  Then  he  came,  like 
a  sudden  wind,  on  to  the  terrace  where  I  was  having 
tea.  Diaz  would  never  take  afternoon  tea.  He 
seized  my  hand  impulsively. 

"Come  down,"  he  said — "down  under  the  trees 
there." 

"What  for?" 

"  I  want  you." 

"But,  Diaz,  let  me  put  my  cup  down.  I  shall 
spill  the  tea  on  my  dress." 

"I'll  take  your  cup." 

"And  I  haven't  nearly  finished  my  tea,  either. 
And  you're  hurting  me." 

"I'll  bring  you  a  fresh  cup,"  he  said.  "Come, 
come!" 


IN  THE  FOREST  271 

And  he  dragged  me  off,  laughing,  to  the  lower 
part  of  the  garden,  where  were  two  chairs  in  the 
shade.  And  I  allowed  myself  to  be  dragged. 

"There!  Sit  down.  Don't  move.  I'll  fetch 
your  tea." 

And  presently  he  returned  with  the  cup. 

"Now  that  you've  nearly  killed  me,"  I  said, 
"and  spoilt  my  dress,  perhaps  you'll  explain." 

He  produced  the  silk-bound  book  of  manuscript 
from  his  pocket  and  put  it  in  my  unoccupied  hand. 

"I  want  you  to  read  it  to  me  aloud,  all  of  it," 
he  said. 

"Really?" 

"Really." 

"What  a  strange  boy  you  are!"  I  chided. 

Then  I  drank  the  tea,  straightened  my  features 
into  seriousness,  and  began  to  read. 

The  reading  occupied  less  than  an  hour.  He 
made  no  remark  when  it  was  done,  but  held  out 
his  hand  for  the  book,  and  went  out  for  a  walk. 
At  dinner  he  was  silent  till  the  servants  had  gone. 
Then  he  said  musingly: 

"That  scene  in  the  cloisters  between  Louise 
and  De  Montespan  is  a  great  idea.  It  will  be 
magnificent;  it  will  be  the  finest  thing  in  the  opera. 
What  a  subject  you  have  found!  What  a  subject!" 
His  tone  altered.  "Magda,  will  you  do  something 
to  oblige  me?" 


272  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

"If  it  isn't  foolish." 

"I  want  you  to  go  to  bed." 

"Out  of  the  way?"  I  smiled. 

"Go  to  bed  and  to  sleep,"  he  repeated. 

"But  why?" 

"I  want  to  walk  about  this  floor.  I  must  be 
alone." 

"Well,"  I  said,  "just  to  prove  how  humble  and 
obedient  I  am,  I  will  go." 

And  I  held  up  my  mouth  to  be  kissed. 

Wondrous,  the  joy  I  found  in  playing  the  deco- 
rative, acquiescent,  self-effacing  woman  to  him, 
the  pretty,  pouting  plaything!  I  liked  him  to  dis- 
miss me,  as  the  soldier  dismisses  his  charmer  at  the 
sound  of  the  bugle.  I  liked  to  think  upon  his 
obvious  conviction  that  the  libretto  was  less  than 
nothing  compared  to  the  music.  I  liked  him  to 
regard  the  whole  artistic  productivity  of  my  life 
as  the  engaging  foible  of  a  pretty  woman.  I  liked 
him  to  forget  that  I  had  brought  him  alive  out  of 
Paris.  I  liked  him  to  forget  to  mention  marriage 
to  me.  In  a  word,  he  was  Diaz,  and  I  was  his. 

And  as  I  lay  in  bed  I  even  tried  to  go  to  sleep 
in  my  obedience,  because  I  knew  he  would  wish 
it.  But  I  could  not  easily  sleep  for  anticipating 
his  triumph  of  the  early  future.  His  habits  of 
composition  were  extremely  rapid.  It  might  well 
occur  that  he  would  write  the  entire  opera  in  a 


IN  THE  FOREST  273 

few  months,  without  at  all  sacrificing  the  piano. 
And  naturally  any  operatic  manager  would  be 
loath  to  refuse  an  opera  signed  by  Diaz.  Villedo, 
apparently  so  famous,  would  be  sure  to  accept  it, 
and  probably  would  produce  it  at  once.  And 
Diaz  would  have  a  double  triumph,  a  dazzling 
and  a  gorgeous  re-entry  into  the  world.  He  might 
give  his  first  recital  in  the  same  week  as  the  -premiere 
of  the  opera.  And  thus  his  shame  would  never  be 
really  known  to  the  artistic  multitude.  The  legend 
of  a  nervous  collapse  could  be  insisted  on,  and  the 
opera  itself  would  form  a  sufficient  excuse  for  his 
retirement.  .  .  .  And  I  should  be  the  secret 
cause  of  all  this  glory  —  I  alone!  And  no  one  would 
ever  guess  what  Diaz  owed  to  me.  Diaz  himself 
would  never  appreciate  it.  I  alone,  withdrawn 
from  the  common  gaze,  like  a  woman  of  the  East, 
Diaz'  secret  fountain  of  strength  and  balm  —  I 
alone  should  be  aware  of  what  I  had  done.  And  my 
knowledge  would  be  enough  for  me. 

I  imagine  I  must  have  been  dreaming  when  I 
felt  a  hand  on  my  cheek. 

"Magda,  you  aren't  asleep,  are  you?" 

Diaz  was  standing  over  me. 

"No,  no!"  I  answered,  in  a  voice  made  feeble 
by  sleep.  And  I  looked  up  at  him. 

"Put  something  on  and  come  downstairs,  will 
you?" 


274  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

"What  time  is  it?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.     One  o'clock." 

"You've  been  working  for  over  three  hours, 
then!" 

I  sat  up. 

"Yes,"  he  said  proudly.  "Come  along.  I  want 
to  play  you  my  notion  of  the  overture.  It's  only 
in  the  rough,  but  it's  there." 

"You've  begun  with  the  overture?" 

"Why  not,  my  child?  Here's  your  dressing- 
gown.  Which  is  the  top  end  of  it?" 

I  followed  him  downstairs,  and  sat  close  by  him 
at  the  piano,  with  one  limp  hand  on  his  shoulder. 
There  was  no  light  in  the  drawing-rooms,  save  one 
candle  on  the  piano.  My  slipper  escaped  off  my 
barefoot.  As  Diaz  played  he  looked  at  me  con- 
stantly, demanding  my  approval,  my  enthusiasm, 
which  I  gave  him  from  a  full  heart.  I  thought  the 
music  charming,  and,  of  course,  as  he  played  it!  ... 

"I  shall  only  have  three  motives,"  he  said.  "That's 
the  La  Valliere  motive.  Do  you  see  the  idea?" 

"You  mean  she  limps?" 

"Precisely.     Isn't  it  delightful?" 

"She  won't  have  to  limp  much,  you  know.  She 
didn't." 

"Just  the  faintest  suggestion.  It  will  be  de- 
licious. I  can  see  Morenita  ia  the  part.  Well, 
what  do  you  think  of  it?" 


IN  THE  FOREST  275 

I  could  not  speak.  His  appeal,  suddenly  wist- 
ful, moved  me  so.  I  leaned  forward  and  kissed  him. 

"Dear  girl!"  he  murmured. 

Then  he  blew  out  the  candle.  He  was  beside 
himself  with  excitement. 

"Diaz,"  I  cried,  "what's  the  matter  with  you? 
Do  have  a  little  sense.  And  you've  made  me 
lose  my  slipper." 

"I'll  carry  you  upstairs,"  he  replied,  gaily. 

A  faint  illumination  came  from  the  hall,  so  that 
we  could  just  see  each  other.  He  lifted  me  off  the 
chair. 

"No!"  I  protested,  laughing.  "And  my  slipper. 
.  .  .  The  servants!" 

"Stuff!" 

I  was  a  trifle  in  those  arms. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  SWIFT  DISASTER 

THE  triumphal  re-entry  into  the  world  has 
just  begun,  and  exactly  as  Diaz  foretold. 
And  the  life  of  the  forest  is  over.  We  have 
come  to  Paris,  and  he  has  taken  Paris,  and  already 
he  is  leaving  it  for  other  shores,  and  I  am  to  follow. 
At  this  moment,  while  I  write  because  I  have  not 
slept  and  cannot  sleep,  his  train  rolls  out  of  St.Lazare. 

Last  night!  How  glorious!  But  he  is  no  longer 
wholly  mine.  The  world  has  turned  his  face  a 
little  from  my  face.  .  .  . 

It  was  as  if  I  had  never  before  realized  the  daz- 
zling significance  of  the  fame  of  Diaz.  I  had  only 
once  seen  him  in  public.  And  though  he  conquered 
in  the  Jubilee  Hall  of  the  Five  Towns,  his  victory, 
personal  and  artistic,  at  the  Opera  Comique,  before 
an  audience  as  exacting,  haughty,  and  experienced 
as  any  in  Europe,  was,  of  course,  infinitely  more 
striking  —  a  victory  worthy  of  a  Diaz. 

I  sat  alone  and  hidden  at  the  back  of  a  baignoire 

in  the   auditorium.     I   had   drawn  up   the  golden 

grille,  by  which  the  occupants  of  a  baignoire  may 

screen  themselves  from  the  curiosity  of  the  parterre. 

276 


THE  SWIFT  DISASTER  277 

I  felt  like  some  caged  Eastern  odalisque,  and  I 
liked  so  to  feel.  I  liked  to  exist  solely  for  him,  to 
be  mysterious,  and  to  baffle  the  general  gaze  in  order 
to  be  more  precious  to  him.  Ah,  how  I  had  changed ! 
How  he  had  changed  me! 

It  was  Thursday,  a  subscription  night,  and, 
in  addition,  all  Paris  was  in  the  theatre,  a  crowded 
company  of  celebrities,  of  experts,  and  of  perfectly- 
dressed  women.  And  no  one  knew  who  I  was, 
nor  why  I  was  there.  The  vogue  of  a  musician 
may  be  universal,  but  the  vogue  of  an  English 
writer  does  not  pass  beyond  England  and  America. 
I  had  not  been  to  a  rehearsal.  I  had  not  met 
Villedo,  nor  even  the  translator  of  my  verse.  I 
had  wished  to  remain  in  the  background,  and 
Diaz  had  not  crossed  me.  Thus  I  gazed  through 
the  bars  of  my  little  cell  across  the  rows  of  bald 
heads  and  wonderful  coiffures,  and  the  waving 
arms  of  the  conductor,  and  the  restless,  gliding 
bows  of  the  violinists,  and  saw  a  scene  which  was 
absolutely  strange  and  new  to  me.  And  it  seemed 
amazing  that  these  figures  which  I  saw  moving 
and  chanting  with  such  grace  in  a  palace  garden, 
authentic  to  the  last  detail  of  historical  accuracy, 
were  my  La  Valliere  and  my  Louis,  and  that  this 
rich  and  coloured  music  which  I  heard  was  the 
same  that  Diaz  had  sketched  for  me  on  the  piano, 
from  illegible  scraps  of  ruled  paper,  on  the  edge 


278  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

of   the    forest.     The    full    miracle    of   operatic    art 
was  revealed  to  me  for  the  first  time. 

And  when  the  curtain  fell  on  the  opening  act, 
the  intoxicating  human  quality  of  an  operatic 
success  was  equally  revealed  to  me  for  the  first 
time.  How  cold  and  distant  the  success  of  a 
novelist  compared  to  this!  The  auditorium  was 
suddenly  bathed  in  bright  light,  and  every  listening 
face  awoke  to  life  as  from  an  enchantment,  and 
flushed  and  smiled,  and  the  delicatest  hands  in 
France  clapped  to  swell  the  mighty  uproar  that 
filled  the  theatre  with  praise.  Paris,  upstanding 
on  its  feet,  and  leaning  over  balconies  and  cheering, 
was  charmed  and  delighted  by  the  fable  and  the 
music,  in  which  it  found  nothing  but  the  sober 
and  pretty  elegance  that  it  loves.  And  Paris 
applauded  feverishly,  and  yet  with  a  full  sense 
of  the  value  of  its  applause  —  given  there  in  the 
only  French  theatre  where  the  claque  has  been 
suppressed.  And  then  the  curtain  rose,  and  La 
Valliere  and  Louis  tripped  mincingly  forward  to 
prove  that  after  all  they  were  Morenita  and  Mont- 
feriot,  the  darlings  of  their  dear  Paris,  and  utterly 
content  with  their  exclusively  Parisian  reputation. 
Three  times  they  came  forward.  And  then  the 
applause  ceased,  for  Paris  is  not  Naples,  and  it  is 
not  Madrid,  and  the  red  curtain  definitely  hid  the 
stage,  and  the  theatre  hummed  with  animated  chatter 


THE  SWIFT  DISASTER  279 

as  elegant  as  Diaz'  music,  and  my  ear,  that  loves  the 
chaste  vivacity  of  the  French  tongue,  was  caressed 
on  every  side  by  its  cadences. 

"This  is  the  very  heart  of  civilization,"  I  said 
to  myself.  "And  even  in  the  forest  I  could  not 
breathe  more  freely." 

I  stared  up  absently  at  Benjamin  Constant's 
blue  ceiling,  meretricious  and  still  adorable,  ex- 
pressive of  the  delicious  decadence  of  Paris,  and 
my  eyes  moistened  because  the  world  is  so  beau- 
tiful in  such  various  ways. 

Then  the  door  of  the  baignoire  opened.  It  was 
Diaz  himself  who  appeared.  He  had  not  forgotten 
me  in  the  excitements  of  the  stage  and  the  dressing- 
rooms.  He  put  his  hand  lightly  on  my  shoulder, 
and  I  glanced  at  him. 

"Well?"  he  murmured,  and  gave  me  a  box  of 
bonbons  elaborately  tied  with  rich  ribbons. 

And  I  murmured,  "Well?" 

The  glory  of  his  triumph  was  upon  him.  But 
he  understood  why  my  eyes  were  wet,  and  his  fingers 
moved  soothingly  on  my  shoulder. 

"You  won't  come  round?"  he  asked.  "Both 
Villedo  and  Morenita  are  dying  to  meet  you." 

I  shook  my  head,  smiling. 

"You're  satisfied?" 

"More  than  satisfied,"  I  answered.  "The  thing 
is  wonderful." 


280  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

"I  think  it's  rather  charming,"  he  said.  "By 
the  way,  I've  just  had  an  offer  from  New  York 
for  it,  and  another  from  Rome." 

I  nodded  my  appreciation. 

"You  don't  want  anything?" 

"Nothing,  thanks,"  I  said,  opening  the  box  of 
bonbons,  "except  these.  Thanks  so  much  for 
thinking  of  them." 

"Well " 

And  he  left  me  again. 

In  the  second  act  the  legend  —  has  not  the  tale 
of  La  Valliere  acquired  almost  the  quality  of  a 
legend?  —  grew  in  persuasiveness  and  in  magnifi- 
cence. It  was  the  hour  of  La  Valliere's  unwilling 
ascendancy,  and  it  foreboded  also  her  fall.  The 
situations  seemed  to  me  to  be  poignantly  beautiful, 
especially  that  in  which  La  Valliere  and  Montes- 
pan  and  the  Queen  found  themselves  together. 
And  Morenita  had  perceived  my  meaning  with 
such  a  sure  intuition.  I  might  say  that  she  showed 
me  what  I  had  meant.  Diaz,  too,  had  given  to 
my  verse  a  voice  than  which  it  appeared  impossible 
that  anything  could  be  more  appropriate.  The 
whole  effect  was  astonishing,  ravishing.  And 
within  me  —  far,  far  within  the  recesses  of  my 
glowing  heart  —  a  thin,  clear  whisper  spoke  and  said 
that  I,  and  I  alone,  was  the  cause  of  that  beauty  of 
sight  and  sound.  Not  Morenita,  and  not  Monte- 


THE  SWIFT  DISASTER  281 

feriot,  not  Diaz  himself,  but  Magda,  the  self-con- 
stituted odalisque,  was  its  author.  I  had  thought 
of  it;  I  had  schemed  it;  I  had  fashioned  it;  I  had 
evoked  the  emotion  in  it.  The  others  had  but  ex- 
quisitely embroidered  my  theme.  Without  me  they 
must  have  been  dumb  and  futile.  On  my  shoulders 
lay  the  burden  and  the  invisible  glory.  And  though 
I  was  amazed,  perhaps  naively,  to  see  what  I  had 
done,  nevertheless  I  had  done  it  —  I !  The  entire 
opera-house,  that  complicated  and  various  machine, 
was  simply  a  means  to  express  me.  And  it  was  to 
my  touch  on  their  heartstrings  that  the  audience 
vibrated.  With  all  my  humility,  how  proud  I  was 
—  coldly  and  arrogantly  proud,  as  only  the  artist 
can  be!  I  wore  my  humility  as  I  wore  my  black 
gown.  Even  Diaz  could  not  penetrate  to  the 
inviolable  place  in  my  heart,  where  the  indestruc- 
tible egoism  defied  the  efforts  of  love  to  silence  it. 
And  yet  people  say  there  is  nothing  stronger  than 
love. 

At  the  close  of  the  act,  while  the  ringing  applause, 
much  more  enthusiastic  than  before,  gave  certainty 
of  a  genuine  and  extraordinary  success,  I  could  not 
help  blushing.  It  was  as  if  I  was  in  danger  of  being 
discovered  as  the  primal  author  of  all  that  fleeting 
loveliness,  as  if  my  secret  was  bound  to  get  about, 
and  I  to  be  forced  from  my  seclusion  in  order  to 
receive  the  acclamations  of  Paris.  I  played  ner- 


282  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

vously  and  self-consciously  with  my  fan,  and  I 
wrapped  my  outer  humility  closer  round  me,  until 
at  length  the  tumult  died  away,  and  the  hum  of 
charming,  eager  chatter  reassured  my  ears  again. 

Diaz  did  not  come.  The  entr'acte  stretched 
out  long,  and  the  chatter  lost  some  of  its  eager- 
ness; and  he  did  not  come.  Perhaps  he  could 
not  come.  Perhaps  he  was  too  much  engaged, 
too  much  preoccupied,  to  think  of  the  gallantry 
which  he  owed  to  his  mistress.  A  man  cannot 
always  be  dreaming  of  his  mistress.  A  mistress 
must  be  reconciled  to  occasional  neglect;  she  must 
console  herself  with  chocolates.  And  they  were 
chocolates  from  Marquis',  in  the  Passage  des 
Panoramas.  .  .  . 

Then  he  came,  accompanied. 

A  whirl  of  high-seasoned,  laughing  personalities 
invaded  my  privacy.  Diaz,  smiling  humorously, 
was  followed  by  a  man  and  a  cloaked  woman. 

"Dear  lady,"  he  said,  with  an  intimate  formality, 
"I  present  Mademoiselle  Morenite  and  Monsieur 
Villedo.  They  insisted  on  seeing  you.  Made- 
moiselle, Monsieur  —  Mademoiselle  Peel." 

I  stood  up. 

"All  our  excuses,"  said  Villedo,  in  a  low,  dis- 
creet voice,  as  he  carefully  shut  the  door.  "All 
our  excuses,  madame.  But  it  was  necessary  that 
I  should  pay  my  respects  —  it  was  stronger  than  I." 


THE  SWIFT  DISASTER  283 

And  he  came  forward,  took  my  hand,  and  raised 
it  to  his  lips.  He  is  a  little  finicking  man,  with  a 
little  gray  beard,  and  the  red  rosette  in  his  button- 
hole, and  a  most  consummate  ease  of  manner. 

"Monsieur,"  I  replied,  "you  are  too  amiable. 
And  you,  madame.  I  cannot  sufficiently  thank 
you  both." 

Morenita  rushed  at  me  with  a  swift,  surprising 
movement,  her  cloak  dropping  from  her  shoulders, 
and  taking  both  my  hands,  she  kissed  me  impulsively. 

"You  have  genius,"  she  said;  "and  I  am  proud. 
I  am  ashamed  that  I  cannot  read  English;  but  I 
have  the  intention  to  learn  in  order  to  read  your 
books.  Our  Diaz  says  wonderful  things  of  them." 

She  is  a  tall,  splendidly-made,  opulent  creature, 
of  my  own  age,  born  of  the  footlights,  with  an 
extremely  sweet  and  thrilling  voice,  and  that  slight 
coarseness  or  exaggeration  of  gesture  and  beauty 
which  is  the  penalty  of  the  stage.  She  did  not 
the  least  resemble  a  La  Valliere  as  she  stood  there 
gazing  at  me,  with  her  gleaming,  pencilled  eyes  and 
heavy,  scarlet  lips.  It  seemed  impossible  that 
she  could  refine  herself  to  a  La  Valliere.  But  that 
woman  is  the  drama  itself.  She  would  act  no 
matter  what.  She  has  always  the  qualities  neces- 
sary to  a  role.  And  the  gods  have  given  her  green 
eyes,  so  that  she  may  be  La  Valliere  to  the  very  life, 

I  began  to  thank  her  for  her  superb  performance. 


284  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

"It  is  I  who  should  thank  you,"  she  answered. 
"It  will  be  my  greatest  part.  Never  have  I  had 
so  many  glorious  situations  in  a  part.  Do  you 
like  my  limp?" 

She  smiled,  her  head  on  one  side.  Success  glit- 
tered in  those  orbs. 

"You  limp  adorably,"  I  said. 

"It  is  my  profession  to  make  compliments," 
Villedo  broke  in;  and  then,  turning  to  Morenita, 
"N'est-ce  pas,  ma  belle  creature?  But  really"  —  he 
turned  to  me  again  —  "  but  very  sincerery,  all  that 
there  is  of  most  sincerely,  dear  madame,  your 
libretto  is  made  with  a  virtuosity  astonishing.  It 
is  du  theatre.  And  with  that  a  charm,  an  emo- 
tion! .  .  .  One  would  say " 

And  so  it  continued,  the  flattering  stream,  while 
Diaz  listened,  touched,  and  full  of  pride. 

"Ah!"  I  said.     "It  is  not  I  who  deserve  praise." 

An  electric  bell  trembled  in  the  theatre. 

Morenita  picked  up  her  cloak. 

"Mon  ami,"  she  warned  Villedo.  "I  must  go. 
Diaz,  mon  petit!  you  will  persuade  Mademoiselle 
Peel  to  come  to  the  room  of  the  Directeur  later. 
Madame,  a  few  of  us  will  meet  there  —  is  it  not  so, 
Villedo?  We  shall  count  on  you,  madame.  You 
have  hidden  yourself  too  long." 

I  glanced  at  Diaz,  and  he  nodded.  As  a  fact, 
I  wished  to  refuse;  but  I  could  not  withstand  the 


THE  SWIFT  DISASTER  285 

seduction  of  Morenita.  She  had  a  physical  influence 
which  was  unique  in  my  experience. 

"I  accept,"  I  said. 

"  Tout  a  I'heure,  then,"  she  twittered  gaily; 
and  they  left  as  they  had  come,  Villedo  affection- 
ately toying  with  Morenita's  hand. 

Diaz  remained  behind  a  moment. 

"I  am  so  glad  you  didn't  decline,"  he  said.  "You 
see,  here  in  this  theatre  Morenita  is  a  queen.  I 
wager  she  has  never  before  in  all  her  life  put  herself 
out  of  the  way  as  she  has  done  for  you  to-night  —  I 
mean  of  course  since  she's  been  a  prima  donna?" 

"Really!"  I  faltered. 

And,  indeed,  as  I  pondered  over  it,  the  polite- 
ness of  these  people  appeared  to  be  marvellous  — 
and  so  perfectly  accomplished!  Villedo,  who  has 
made  a  European  reputation  and  rejuvenated  his 
theatre  in  a  dozen  years,  is  doubtless,  as  he  said, 
a  professional  maker  of  compliments.  In  his 
position  a  man  must  be.  But,  nevertheless,  last 
night's  triumph  is  officially  and  very  genuinely 
Villedo's.  While  as  for  Morenita  and  Diaz,  the 
mere  idea  of  these  golden  stars  waiting  on  me,  the 
librettist,  effacing  themselves,  rendering  them- 
selves subordinate  at  such  a  moment,  was  fantastic. 
It  passed  the  credible.  ...  A  Diaz  standing 
silent  and  deferential,  while  an  idolized  prima 
donna  stepped  down  from  her  throne  to  flatter  me 


286  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

in    her   own    temple!     All    that    I    had    previously 
achieved  of  renown  seemed  provincial,  insular. 

But  Diaz  took  his  own  right  place  in  the  spacious 
salon  of  Villedo  afterwards,  after  all  the  applause 
had  ceased,  and  the  success  had  been  consecrated, 
and  the  enraptured  audience  had  gone,  and  the 
lights  were  extinguished  in  the  silent  auditorium. 
It  is  a  room  that  seems  to  be  furnished  with  nothing 
but  a  grand  piano  and  a  large,  flat  writing-table 
and  a  few  chairs.  On  the  walls  are  numberless 
signed  portraits  of  singers  and  composers,  and 
antique  playbills  of  the  Opera  Comique,  together 
with  the  strange  sinister  souvenirs  of  the  great  fires 
which  have  destroyed  the  house  and  its  patrons 
in  the  past.  When  Diaz  led  me  in,  only  Villedo  and 
the  principal  artists  and  Pouvillon,  the  conductor, 
were  present.  Pouvillon,  astonishingly  fat,  was 
sitting  on  the  table,  idly  swinging  the  electric  pen- 
dant over  his  head;  while  Morenita  occupied  Vil- 
ledo's  armchair,  and  Villedo  talked  to  Montefe'riot 
and  another  man  in  a  corner.  But  a  crowd  of  offi- 
cials of  the  theatre  ventured  on  Diaz'  heels.  And 
then  came  Monticelli,  the  premiere  danseuse,  in  a 
coat  and  skirt,  and  then  some  of  her  rivals.  And  as 
the  terrible  Director  did  not  protest,  the  room 
continued  to  fill  until  it  was  full  to  the  doors,  where 
stood  a  semicircle  of  soiled,  ragged  scene-shifters 
and  a  few  fat  old  women,who  were  probably  dressers. 


THE  SWIFT  DISASTER  287 

Who  could  protest  on  such  a  night?  The  democ- 
racy of  a  concerted  triumph  reigned.  Everybody 
was  joyous,  madly  happy.  Everybody  had  done 
something;  everybody  shared  the  prestige,  and  the 
rank  and  file  might  safely  take  generals  by  the  hand. 

Diaz  was  then  the  centre  of  attraction.  It  was 
recognized  that  he  had  entered  that  sphere  from  a 
wider  one,  bringing  with  him  a  radiance  brighter 
than  he  found  there.  He  was  divine  last  night. 
All  felt  that  he  was  divine.  He  spoke  to  every- 
one with  an  admirable  modesty,  gaily,  his  eyes 
laughing.  Several  women  kissed  him,  including 
Morenita.  Not  that  I  minded!  In  the  theatre 
the  code  is  different,  coarser.  He  alone  raised  this 
crowd  above  its  usual  level  and  gave  it  distinction. 

Some  one  suggested  that,  as  the  piano  was  there, 
he  should  play,  and  the  demand  ran  from  mouth 
to  mouth.  Villedo,  appreciating  its  audacity, 
made  a  gesture  to  indicate  that  such  a  thing  could 
not  be  asked.  But  Diaz  instantly  said  that,  if 
it  would  give  pleasure,  he  would  play  with 
pleasure. 

And  he  sat  down  to  the  piano,  and  looked  round, 
smiling,  and  the  room  was  hushed  in  a  moment, 
and  each  face  was  turned  towards  him. 

"What?"  he  ejaculated.  And  then,  as  no 
definite  recommendation  was  offered,  he  said: 
"Do  you  wish  that  I  improvise?" 


288  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

The  idea  was  accepted  with  passionate,  noisy 
enthusiasm. 

A  cold  perspiration  broke  out  over  my  whole 
body.  I  must  have  turned  very  pale. 

"You  are  not  ill,  madame?"  asked  that  ridicu- 
lous fop,  Monteferiot,who  had  been  presented  to  me, 
and  was  whispering  the  most  fatuous  com- 
pliments. 

"No,  I  thank  you." 

The  fact  was  that  Diaz,  since  his  retirement, 
had  not  yet  played  to  anyone  except  myself.  This 
was  his  first  appearance.  I  was  afraid  for  him. 
I  trembled  for  him.  I  need  not  have  done.  He 
was  absolutely  master  of  his  powers.  His  fingers 
announced,  quite  simply,  one  of  the  most  successful 
airs  from  La  Valliere^  and  then  he  began  to  decorate 
it  with  an  amazing  lacework  of  variations,  and  fin- 
ished with  a  bravura  display  such  as  no  pianist 
could  have  surpassed.  The  performance,  marvel- 
lous in  itself,  was  precisely  suited  to  that  audience, 
and  it  electrified  the  audience;  it  electrified  even  me. 
Diaz  fought  his  way  through  kisses  and  embraces 
to  Villedo,  who  stood  on  his  toes  and  wept  and  put 
his  arms  round  Diaz'  neck. 

" Cher  maitre"  he  cried,  "you  overwhelm  us!" 

"You  are  too  kind,  all  of  you,"  said  Diaz.  "I 
must  ask  permission  to  retire.  I  have  to  conduct 
Mademoiselle  Peel  to  her  hotel,  and  there  is  much 


THE  SWIFT  DISASTER  289 

for  me  to  do  during  the  night.     You  know  I  start 
very  early  to-morrow." 
"Helas!"  Morenita  sighed. 

I  had  blushed.  Decidedly  I  behaved  like  a 
girl  last  night.  But,  indeed,  the  new,  swift 
realization,  as  Diaz  singled  me  out  of  that 
multitude,  that  after  all  he  utterly  belonged  to  me, 
that  he  was  mine  alone,  was  more  than  I  could 
bear  with  equanimity.  I  was  the  proudest  woman 
in  the  universe.  I  scorned  the  lot  of  all  other 
women. 

The  adieux  were  exchanged,  and  there  were 
more  kisses.  "  Au  revoir!  Bon  voyage!  Much 
success  over  there." 

The  majority  of  these  good,  generous  souls  were 
in  tears. 

Villedo  opened  a  side-door,  and  we  escaped  into 
a  corridor,  only  Morenita  and  one  or  two  others 
accompanying  us  to  the  street. 

And  on  the  pavement  a  carpet  had  been  laid. 
The  electric  brougham  was  waiting.  I  gathered 
up  my  skirt  and  sprang  in.  Diaz  followed,  smiling 
at  me.  He  put  his  head  out  of  the  window  and 
said  a  few  words.  Morenita  blew  a  kiss.  Villedo 
bowed  profoundly.  The  carriage  moved  in  the 
direction  of  the  boulevard.  ...  I  had  carried 
him  off.  Oh,  the  exquisite  dark  intimacy  of  the 
interior  of  that  smooth-rolling  brougham!  When, 


290  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

after  the  theatre,  a  woman  precedes  a  man  into  a 
carriage,  does  she  not  publish  and  glory  in  the  fact 
that  she  is  his?  Is  it  not  the  most  delicious  of 
avowals?  There  is  something  in  the  enforced  bend 
of  one's  head  as  one  steps  in.  And  when  the  man 
pulls  the  door  to  with  a  masculine  snap  .  .  . 

I  wondered  idly  what  Morenita  and  Villedo 
thought  of  our  relations.  They  must  surely  guess. 
Why,  of  course!  This  was  Paris. 

We  went  down  the  boulevard  and  by  the  Rue 
Royale  into  the  Place  de  la  Concorde,  where  vehicles 
flitted  mysteriously  in  a  maze  of  lights  under  the 
vast  dome  of  mysterious  blue.  And  Paris,  in  her 
incomparable  toilette  of  a  June  night,  seemed  more 
than  ever  the  passionate  city  of  love  that  she  is, 
recognizing  candidly,  with  the  fearless  intellectuality 
of  the  Latin  temperament,  that  one  thing  only 
makes  life  worth  living.  How  soft  was  the  air! 
How  languorous  the  pose  of  the  dim  figures  that 
passed  us  half  hidden  in  other  carriages!  And  in 
my  heart  was  the  lofty  joy  of  work  done,  definitely 
accomplished,  and  a  vista  of  years  of  future  pleasure. 
My  happiness  was  ardent  and  yet  calm  — a  happiness 
beyond  my  hopes,  beyond  what  a  mortal  has  the 
right  to  dream  of.  Nothing  could  impair  it,  not 
even  Diaz'  continued  silence  as  to  a  marriage 
between  us,  not  even  the  imminent  brief  separation 
that  I  was  to  endure. 


THE  SWIFT  DISASTER  291 

"My  child,"  said  Diaz  suddenly,  "I'm  very  hun- 
gry. I've  never  been  so  hungry." 

"You  surely  didn't  forget  to  have  your  dinner?" 
I  exclaimed. 

"Yes,  I  did,"  he  admitted  like  a  child;  "I've  just 
remembered." 

"Diaz!"  I  pouted,  and  for  some  strange  reason 
my  bliss  was  intensified,  "you  are  really  terrible! 
What  can  I  do  with  you?  You  will  eat  before  you 
leave  me.  I  must  see  to  that.  We  can  get  some- 
thing for  you  at  the  hotel,  perhaps." 

"Suppose  we  go  to  a  supper  restaurant?"  he 
said. 

Without  waiting  for  my  reply,  he  seized  the 
dangling  end  of  the  speaking-tube  and  spoke  to 
the  driver,  and  we  swerved  round  and  regained  the 
boulevard. 

And  in  the  private  room  of  a  great,  glittering 
restaurant,  one  of  a  long  row  of  private  rooms  off 
a  corridor,  I  ate  strawberries  and  cream  and  sipped 
champagne  while  Diaz  went  through  the  entire 
menu  of  a  supper. 

"Your  eyes  look  sad,"  he  murmured,  with  a 
cigar  between  his  teeth.  "What  is  it?  We  shall 
see  each  other  again  in  a  fortnight." 

He  was  to  resume  his  career  by  a  series  of  concerts 
in  the  United  States.  A  New  York  agent,  with  the 
characteristic  enterprise  of  New  York  agents,  had 


292  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

tracked  Diaz  even  into  the  forest  and  offered  him 
two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dollars  for  forty 
concerts  on  the  condition  that  he  played  at  no 
concert  before  he  played  in  New  York.  And  in 
order  to  reach  New  York  in  time  for  the  first  concert, 
it  was  imperative  that  he  should  catch  the  Touraine 
at  Havre.  I  was  to  follow  in  a  few  days  by  a 
Hamburg-American  liner.  Diaz  had  judged  it 
more  politic  that  we-  should  not  travel  together. 
In  this  he  was  undoubtedly  right. 

I  smiled  proudly. 

"I  am  both  sad  and  happy,"  I  answered. 

He  moved  his  chair  until  it  touched  mine,  and 
put  his  arm  round  my  neck,  and  brought  my  face 
close  to  his. 

"Look  at  me,"  he  said. 

And  I  looked  into  his  large,  splendid  eyes. 

"You  mustn't  think,"  he  whispered,  "that, 
because  I  don't  talk  about  it,  I  don't  feel  that  I  owe 
everything  to  you." 

I  let  my  face  fall  on  his  breast.  I  knew  I  had 
flushed  to  the  ears. 

"My  poor  boy/'  I  sobbed,  "if  you  talk  about 
that  I  shall  never  forgive  you." 

It  was  heaven  itself.  No  woman  has  ever  been 
more  ecstatically  happy  than  I  was  then. 

He  rang  for  the  bill. 

We  parted  at  the  door  of  my  hotel.     In  the  car- 


THE  SWIFT  DISASTER  293 

riage  we  had  exchanged  one  long,  long  kiss.  At 
the  last  moment  I  wanted  to  alter  the  programme; 
I  wanted  to  go  with  him  to  his  hotel  and  assist  in 
his  final  arrangements,  and  then  see  him  off  at  early 
morning  at  the  station.  But  he  refused.  He 
said  he  could  not  bear  to  part  from  me  in  public. 
Perhaps  it  was  best  so.  Just  as  I  turned  away  he 
put  a  packet  into  my  hand.  It  contained  seven 
banknotes  for  ten  thousand  francs  each,  money 
that  it  had  been  my  delight  to  lend  him  from  time 
to  time.  Foolish,  vain,  scrupulous  boy!  I  knew 
not  where  he  had  obtained 


It  is  now  evening.  Diaz  is  on  the  sea.  While 
writing  those  last  lines  I  was  attacked  by  fearful 
pains  in  the  right  side,  and  cramp,  so  that  I  could 
not  finish.  I  can  scarcely  write  now.  I  have 
just  seen  the  old  English  doctor.  He  says  I  have 
appendicitis,  perhaps  caused  by  pips  of  strawberries. 
And  that  unless  I  am  operated  on  at  once  —  And 
that  even  if  -  He  is  telephoning  to  the  hospital. 
Diaz!  No;  I  shall  come  safely  through  the  affair. 
Without  me  Diaz  would  fall  again.  I  see  that  now. 
And  I  have  had  no  child.  I  must  have  a  child. 
Even  that  girl  in  the  blue  peignoir  had  a  — 
Chance  is  a  strange 


294  THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

Extract  translated  from  "Le  Temps,"  the  Paris  Evening  Paper 
OBSEQUIES  OF  MISS  PELL  (sic) 

The  obsequies  of  Mademoiselle  Pell,  the  celebrated  English 
poetess,  and  author  of  the  libretto  La  Falliere,  were  cele- 
brated this  morning  at  eleven  o'clock  in  the  Church  of  St. 
Honore  d'Eylau. 

The  chief  mourners  were  the  doctor  who  assisted  at  the  last 
moments  of  Mademoiselle  Pell,  and  M.  Villedo,  director  of  the 
Opera-Comique. 

Among  the  wreaths  we  may  cite  those  of  the  Association 
of  Dramatic  Artists,  of  Madame  Morenita,  of  the  manage- 
ment of  the  Opera-Comique,  and  of  the  artists  of  the  Opera- 
Comique. 

Mass  was  said  by  a  vicar  of  the  parish,  and  general  absolution 
given  by  M.  le  Cure  Marbeau. 

During  the  service  there  was  given,  under  the  direction  of 
M.  Letang,  chapel-master,  the  Funeral  March  of  Beethoven, 
the  Kyrie  of  Neidermeyer,  the  Pie  Jesu  of  Stradella,  the  Ego 
Sum  of  Gounod,  the  Libera  Me  of  S.  Rousseau. 

M.  Deep  officiated  at  the  organ. 

After  the  ceremony  the  remains  were  transported  to  the 
cemetery  of  Pere-Lachaise. 


THE    END 


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